


Soft To Be Strong

by Achilltatos



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Between the Scenes, Gardener Aziraphale (Good Omens), Loosely based off of a song, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Slow Burn, declined proposal, historical events, ineffable husbands, proposal, the bentley is an asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-01-04 19:30:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21202874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achilltatos/pseuds/Achilltatos
Summary: Eternity was knocking on their door.Would fate allow them to open it?Crowley and Aziraphale have very similar ideas on who they want to spend eternity with. However, stating it would mean heaven and hell might burn both their tongues. Besides, they have much more pressing matters to attend to, like Armageddon. That doesn't stop Crowley from proposing at the most unsuitable times.(A completed between-the-scenes fic, loosely based off of MARINA's Soft To Be Strong)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I asked Greta for a random song to base my fic on, and it really was only supposed to be some loose drabble about cursed touches. It became so much more though, and I hope you'll enjoy reading it just as much as I enjoyed writing it!  
  
PS: this chapter caused me to perfectly order a dish in French when i was on holiday in France, please don't tell my very impressed mother

The first time they touch is a good year into the successful history of Shakespeare’s _Hamlet_.

The Globe, once filled with only a handful of people, was stuffed with an audience that were jeering and engaging with the play in such a way Aziraphale had not considered possible. He had not asked Crowley how he had managed to miracle _Hamlet_ into such a good show. He was certain that asking a demon for pointers on how to perform miracles was something that was frowned upon by just about anyone. That ‘anyone’ included Crowley.

Aziraphale had miracled himself to the front of the audience, quite unbothered by the movements of the crowd. He often found himself not too fond of crowds, but as he stood there, sensing all the emotions around him, he couldn’t say he was quite against it.

The crowd gasped as the actors brought a skull in view. The story was immensely engaging, but a bit of gore was where it was really catching the audience’s attention.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. He did not remember—

“I gave him some pointers!”

Aziraphale turned to find Crowley standing beside him, a sharp grin on his face. He was wearing his usual shades to hide his eyes from the humans around them, but quickly lowered them for a bit to make sure he showed the angel a flash of yellow.

“Yes I recognized you, no need to scare anyone in the audience.”

“Do you like Yorick?”

“Yorick? Do you mean—”

“The jester? Yes, I decided to make him a thing of the ‘past.’ sort of a way to say I killed him, didn’t really like his character.”

Aziraphale gave him a shocked look, glancing at the skull in Hamlet’s hand.

“Oi! Not _actually_ killed him! I just made sure Shakespeare killed his character!”

“Oh… Well, either way, you _are_ a demon…” Aziraphale muttered it quite absentmindedly, looking back at the performance.

No words were shared between them for a little while. Crowley graced him with a show without many distractions, seemingly content with watching something that was, in his eyes, many times better than the ‘original’ work.

A fight started on stage, something Aziraphale knew was already in the plot before Crowley got himself involved. What Aziraphale wasn’t familiar with, however, was the way it riled up the audience.

“HAVE AT ‘EM! GO, HAMLET!’

“Oh dear...”

The crowd around Crowley and Aziraphale started closing in, pushing further to the front and center of the stage to see the fight in more detail. Fake blood splattered onto the stage (Something that was definitely Crowley’s input) and on some of the crowd, narrowly avoiding Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s shoulder was bumped quite harshly by a man about a head taller than him, who was ready to throw some of his ale at the actor portraying Claudius. His displeasure almost threw Aziraphale over if he didn’t manage to steady himself—

_If he didn’t manage to steady himself with the use of Crowley’s arm._

Yellow met blue, the mess around them suddenly not at all important. In fact, everything seemed a lot more quiet than the mess of thoughts that went through Aziraphale’s head.

Here is a thing one must know about what’s said about demons: they are wily, dirty, and have their appearance reflect all their bad thoughts and plans.

The only time an angel is ever expected to be in touch with a demon is during a fight.

It caused, quite understandably, the assumption that coming into contact with a demon might pollute something, like a stain on a white sheet.

Quite the same is the topic of conversation with demons: they state that the touch of an angel burns just as much as the sensation of holy water. Obviously, because both were of the highest grace.

Not desirable, to put it mildly.

Both were waiting for disaster to happen in the center of the Shakespeare Globe, frozen in place.

Yet nothing happened.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, letting go of Crowley’s arm and therefore ending whatever spell hung over them. He gave him another tap, as if testing the waters and assuring himself that truly nothing had happened.

Crowley rolled his shoulders, brushing the metaphorical tension away.

“Well, how awfully—”

“Anticlimactic—”

“Rude! I would have let him pass if he had asked kindly!”

Crowley let that statement drift off in silence for a moment, then shrugged. 

“Hm-m.”

They both turned back to look at the play, a solid arm’s distance between them.

* * *

Au p’tit Ange was a small crêperie situated in one of the many alleyways of central Paris. Its customership left with a smile. And, as many restaurants might state, they served the best crêpes in all of Paris.

The soft sizzling of the butter in the pan had been interrupted by the bell that announced the arrival of new customers. The waiter, dressed impeccably, chirped a ‘bonjour’ to the two nicely-dressed gentlemen who had just walked in.

The small restaurant that had caught Aziraphale’s eyes was crowded enough to give them both some privacy, though there had been some lingering gazes along the way.

It was nothing they had to be worried about. Humans loved bright colours; even Aziraphale’s preferably white outfit had gotten him stares in the years he had been on earth. Now, with the new costume, which was as patriotic as it could be, it came as no surprise that some people snuck in a good stare.

“Oh, bonjour!” Aziraphale chirped back cheerfully, clearly having already forgotten about his close call with the guillotine. “I sure love French, such a romantic language…”

“Didn’t bother to study it though, did you?”

Aziraphale seemed unbothered by the jab, playing with the frills of his new outfit.

“Surely I have no need for more than the occasional French, why would I master a language of a country I will not frequent?”

Crowley regarded the menu for a moment, then put it down once again when he spotted the waiter approaching them.

“Monsieurs...”

“Ah, oui! Oui, je voudraite.. une.. Crêpe...”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, his lips still trying to form a word that wasn’t willing to be recalled. How _stubborn_, surely he knew how to order his favourite dish?

Crowley cleared his throat, forcing the waiter to look at him instead.

“Il voudrai une crêpe avec des fruits rouge, et une café noir pour moi, s’il vous plaît.”

Aziraphale caught himself staring at Crowley with something that wasn’t quite surprise, but more a thing closely related to horror.

The waiter walked off, clearly not ready to witness whatever argument came next.

“You speak French.”

Not a question, just a simple statement. Not accusatory either, at least Aziraphale tried to not let it shine through.

“I do, I need to know the language if I’m tempting the French. Hell knows they don’t always speak English.”

That didn’t sit quite right.

Aziraphale leaned in a little, the corners of his lips turned up. Not quite in a smile, there was something hidden beneath it that Crowley couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“Aha, but that is not quite true! We both know you would never put _that_ much effort in your tempting...”

“Now now angel, where is your faith?” Crowley leaned back in his seat.

He was obviously teasing. His French hadn’t been a tool, but more like a necessity. One needed to speak French to get around, especially if you wanted to prevent being discorporated. That _and_ you couldn’t quite party without knowing the words to talk oneself into someone’s bed.

Quite honestly, Crowley was simply passing the time pretending all of the events in Paris had been a great scheme of his. He simply had to stand by a bit, mutter some encouragements and humans would go off on their own.

Quite honestly, the guillotine had been the most grotesque monster of human invention since Da Vinci’s inventions before he got a conscience.

“My faith, although unwavering, has its blind spots. I do not know whether you did something good today, or something _bad_ considering your side of ethics.”

“How about you just don’t use the word ‘good’ to describe me.”

They sat in relative silence. Aziraphale looked around the small restaurant. Part of him was still sure that he wasn’t going to get away with a simple swap of clothes. He still had his British accent, and did not hold himself as someone who could be quite as revolutionary or cruel as to cut off someone’s head.

It wouldn’t surprise him if someone would barge in, interrupting the crêpe enjoyment for everyone. It would be the best last meal for this body, Aziraphale thought.

And then another thought popped up, quite a fond one.

At least he had someone to share it with—

“It is not like I wouldn’t have been able to invent the guillotine. It’s simply that I was too busy with other things to really dedicate my mind to it. You know how humans are, they have nothing better to do than bring each other displeasure.”

Well, that fond thought dissipated within all but a second as soon as Crowley decided to part his jaws.

“And yet the French invented crêpes.”

“And look where it got _you_!”

It was with perfect timing that the waiter brought over their orders. Aziraphale was impressed, for Crowley had ordered just what he wanted.

“Oh yes, I am in quite the worst state.”

Crowley mumbled something under his breath. But Aziraphale was too preoccupied with the crêpe to really bother listening to his stubbornness.

It was, possibly, the best crêpe he had had in ages. Aziraphale would claim later that it was all worth it.

“Oh, that is to _die_ for.”

“Can’t be that good, I’m impressed you even have an appetite.”

Aziraphale took a moment to gather another bite onto a fork, then raised an eyebrow at Crowley.

“Here, how about you try it?”

A silence fell between them. Crowley was frozen in place, then made a sound the angel would describe as ‘an ink blot if you were to write it on paper.’ He slowly took the fork from Aziraphale’s hand, taking a bite so carefully that it suggested the idea that it might have the chance of being poisoned.

And yes, it was good. But not a good that would have made Crowley risk being discorporated over. He sometimes had trouble understanding the angel in front of him, but that was what made it all the more _exciting_.

It had not been boring in Paris, yet here he sat, content with the events that had brought them both in this silly restaurant. Enjoying eternity was so much more fun when someone was in on it. Someone who could appreciate humans, or at least the human life, from the perspective of an outsider.

“A’right, you convinced me.”

Crowley didn’t often lie to Aziraphale, even if the angel often thought he did. This was, however, a lie.

He was in an okay mood for crêpes. He had more of an appetite for the smallest twinkle in Aziraphale’s eyes as he ordered a second plate with a more savoury topping.

Not that he’d admit it.

“Still your treat?”

“Well of course!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A proposal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please click on the little ✧'s within the chapters for song recs to set the scene! (Make sure to click 'open in new tab')  
  
PS: this chapter is also known as 'the chapter in which I finally knew where I was heading'. I hope you will enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Crowley regarded the burning piece of paper that was still slowly floating in the water. Even if it was just to avoid looking at Aziraphale, who was still angrily moving his way through the crowd of St. James’ park. It was much alike a Chinese memorial lantern, just with a bleaker omen.

_Fraternizing_. You save an angel’s life once, expect something back that is on the same level, and you’re instantly accused of befriending the enemy by said enemy.

The tiny paper burned to a crisp, the small pieces of ash spreading through the water.

Crowley had much preferred Paris over London. London was unsympathetic and so struck by the fear of god that all the true sinners were already snatched by other demons.

Demons only started thinking when they got bored, and they had started asking questions when Crowley had claimed sins that had previously been claimed by others. By now, actually doing what was expected of him would take less of an effort than figuring out lies to get away with it. Not that he really had a choice now, because Crowley’s only way out was currently angrily trying to snatch a carriage to bring himself far away from St James’ park.

Something was eating him from the inside, the gnawing feeling that wasn’t disappointment, and maybe not really anger. Quite honestly, it annoyed him immensely, he’d much rather see if apologizing—

What the _hell_. Apologizing? Was he out of his mind?

Crowley cursed under his breath a few times, then rushed his way out of the park from the other side to assure he would be completely avoiding Aziraphale.

Then cursed again, just for good measure.

* * *

A suicide pill, what a ridiculous idea.

Aziraphale looked through the window of the carriage that was on its way to his place. He pursed his lips, trying to stop whatever unholy emotions were threatening to overtake him. Wrath wasn’t virtuous for an angel, but then again, gloom was allowed.

Aziraphale had been convinced that whatever had been between him and Crowley was something that would be uniform. They both had their lives in London, they would sometimes meet and exchange information and they would go their merry ways.

The angel had looked forward to someone being in on it. He thought it had been quite a merry inside joke. He didn’t like to be reminded how serious their predicament was.

So serious that Crowley would rather die than be held responsible for all of it. Aziraphale knew what holy water did to a demon. Unfortunately, there had been plenty of encounters throughout the ages of demons-who-weren’t-named-Crowley coming across angels-that-weren’t-named-Aziraphale.

He’d rather not have a hand in the same happening to someone he had considered a friend, or an acquaintance.

Not that Crowley really thought the same.

Maybe he was alone in his hope for Crowley’s redemption. Maybe he was alone in his hope for planet earth and its future in the perspective of the two sides they weren’t all that conscious of.

Within the city bursting with life, an angel and a demon found themselves sharing the loneliness that came with immortality.

* * *

Aziraphale had enough time to calm down before gloom followed once again. Britain, though not as much in the crossfire, was still heavily threatened as the World War waved over Europe. The angels, though performing miracles wherever they could, did not have enough miracles to save children, innocents, or the ones worthy of redemption. Many humans died in the war, protecting family or becoming the victim of needless violence. Aziraphale was never going to get used to it.

He bet the demon was having a field day.

He hadn’t seen Crowley since the day he had brought up the request for holy water. The gloom had made place for a silent stab in his chest ever so often when he got a new job from upstairs. Crowley must not care about him that much either, because in all the years that followed, he had not put in a single effort to clear things up, or have the nerve to ask again.

The first air raid of London was also known by some as the biggest wake up call. Most didn’t know that it had two meanings: the bleakest reminder that a world war had just started, and the moment that Crowley decided to wake up from a much needed anger-nap.

And he woke up just as mad.

Demons, though they were often busy and messy about their ways, had not bothered to chase after Crowley all this time. Maybe they quietly thought he was too busy managing a world war, but quite honestly, Crowley would never be able to invent this type of evil. The guillotine? Certainly. This? No thanks.

If he ever wanted to have Aziraphale look at him again, he would certainly have to do something that was more recognizable as Crowley-evil. He ignored the gnawing thought that it really did not matter what an _angel_ thought of his work.

And so he did some Crowley-evil.

Germans found themselves talking to a charming British gentleman who spoke perfect German and guided them to resistance camps all throughout Europe. They were always outnumbered, they always ended up being beaten, but the tips were always accurate, and they always found something. That was, until they got a bullet through their head.

The immense chaos of a local battalion of English resistance fighters found themselves miraculously healed as they brought down nazi spy centers in Central London. The nazi spies had been a street away from a certain bookstore in Soho, and had thought it an excellent place to lay low.

They never got even close enough to touching the door knob.

And so Crowley found himself deeply rooted in the ground of well-maintained chaos. He knew of more plans than most generals, and knew the words on the streets.

He had heard that the nazis were particularly fond of artefacts, prophecies, and all that was rare. He overheard chuckles and gossip of German spies finding their way to a bookshop keeper in London, who was walking straight into a trap.

And as much as Crowley wanted to think he still wasn’t fully warmed up from their last freezing meeting, he had warmed up enough for the thought to make his blood run cold.

He wanted to scream just a little bit more to Aziraphale, and he couldn’t do so if the angel decided to get discorporated in the dumbest way possible.

Besides, he had to boast a little about the chaos he had created, and the demons around him hadn’t really been understanding of the sweet art of creating chaos on both sides.

Even in his sleep, Crowley had felt the distance between him and Aziraphale. He had _hated_ it, and whatever colour of beige that had come to him in his dreams that made him recall his awful style.

It is why Crowley found himself in front of a church, hesitant and reluctant to walk inside, but positively convinced that his plan was going to work.

That is, if Aziraphale even decided to think he was worthy of a glance his way.

This plan was all dependent on whether the angel was forgiving, but then again, that was a virtuous thing, surely one that Aziraphale possessed, or was too convinced he _had_ to possess.

Crowley took a step in, then another one, and found himself face to face with Aziraphale after about a full human life.

[✧](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SFEdGzTC5RE)

* * *

Aziraphale was lucky that heaven was too busy to look as carefully at every miracle that was spent, for they surely had noticed the immense miracle of saving oneself and a _demon_.

The rubble around Aziraphale was smouldering and crumbled. He could feel the heat that radiated through the soles of his shoes. There was chaos around him, and within the rubble, after a solid 100 years, Crowley stood in front of him once more, casually cleaning his sunglasses, which were definitely not needed at the godforsaken hour of bombs ‘o clock.

He was happy to see Crowley again. Not only for the lack of paperwork and the fact that he saved him, but because he had honestly missed the demon more than he wanted to admit.

He had also definitely missed that scowl of Crowley as he expressed his gratitude.

And then something hit him, that in the moment that Aziraphale had shielded them both from the explosion, he had not been conscious of his own belongings as much. Being discorporated was troublesome, of course, but there weren’t as many first publications of prophetic publications as there were versions of Aziraphale that had walked on planet earth. He felt his heart break a little, for he had never sensed a situation where he would have risked the handful of books getting in the wrong hands, or worse, blown to bits.

This was the worst possible ending of a storybook about Aziraphale collaborating with resistance fighters (who might have actually been German spies).

A brown leather bag came into view, and Aziraphale stopped panicking as Crowley offered it to him. It seemed heavy and sturdy, and not at all scathed by the explosion that had just taken place.

_His books._

“A little demonic miracle of my own,”

Aziraphale had reflexively reached for the bag, grabbing the handle in such a way that it covered Crowley’s hand. Crowley had been firmly holding it to assure it wouldn’t still drop and ruin the books in any way.

Crowley, as always, tensed and suppressed the reflex of finding his distance from any physical touch of the angel, and Aziraphale could feel it, a fear that was so unnecessary. Had he not just saved the demon from certain doom? Why bother killing him afterwards?

A burning sensation crept up Aziraphale’s neck. It was warm, scathing in a way it always did when he got injured and was supposed to feel pain. Angels, though often having similar experiences as humans when they presented themselves as such, did not feel emotions or pain in quite the same way. It was possibly just an ember that had found its way on him.

[✧](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hm6A94zzMvM)

“Ride home?”

Aziraphale pulled the bag close to his chest, looking after Crowley as he effortlessly walked over the rubble now. Any sacred ground had been upturned, making the rubble a ground he was probably more used to walk on.

Aziraphale realized he had not said a word since he had spotted the bag. In fact, he was still frozen in place.

Crowley didn’t have to do that. Aziraphale was certain something had broken between them after the whole holy water debacle. Yet here the demon was, once again, saving him and his books.

The demon had just signed their peace treaty in the most graceful way possible.

The surrounding area was beginning to get to him, the embers and burning wood of the furniture heating everything up to a point where it was getting unbearably hot. Aziraphale stepped out of the rubble, rushing after Crowley who was waiting in front of a sleek black car.

Aziraphale hesitated in front of him. It almost seemed rude to ask for another favour.

“Well? Life’s short, I don’t have all day!” Crowley interrupted, pointing at the passenger side. “Get in.”

Aziraphale had barely managed to close the door of the Bentley before Crowley started driving his way to his bookshop. They were quiet, neither seemed to know why exactly. They both had so much to say but no idea where to even start.

Both wanted to apologize, both wanted to thank the other, and both wanted to have their little misunderstanding resolved.

The Bentley arrived at Aziraphale’s bookstore in record time. Yet, the only thing that broke the silence was the electric guitar sounds of a band Aziraphale did not recognize.

Aziraphale didn’t leave the Bentley even after Crowley turned off the car’s engine.

He made sure to look anywhere but at the demon, for quite good reason.

Another beat of silence.

“I—” Both said, at exactly the same time.

“You—” Again, both at the same time.

It was getting warm in the car again.

“You go first,” Aziraphale mumbled, waving his hand towards him in a casual motion, but immediately folding it back over his lap.

“Wuh-hh, well…” Crowley started, an _excellent_ start that didn’t make Aziraphale nervous at all, no way.

“I may have made a mistake in requesting holy water from you, I shouldn’t have gone off like that.”

“No… I— Crowley, you have done plenty of favours for me over the centuries, it was rude of me to not be realistic about the consequences of it going wrong.”

Another beat of silence.

“But you weren’t mad about the holy water, were you?” Crowley mumbled, it seemed he was quite uncertain in his statement.

Aziraphale looked at his hands.

“You would be correct,”

Aziraphale would have happily given Crowley holy water if it was an insurance in a different way. For Aziraphale, it had meant the end of their acquaintanceship, the end of something. Maybe even the end of Crowley. He still didn’t like admitting that he much preferred sharing his time with the demon.

Crowley took a deep breath.

“Look, I wouldn’t call what we have going on a friendship, I fear heaven and hell might burn our tongues if we would even phrase it as such. But I don’t like seeing you discorporated. I mean, I just saved you.”

Crowley clearly had to force the words past his lips, it almost seemed that it hurt just as much as the sacred ground of the church that was now going up in smoke.

“I can understand how it must have felt for you that I requested something that I could easily kill myself with.”

“Crowley…”

“Ugh… don’t give me that tone...” Crowley pulled a face, but Aziraphale didn’t even bother to listen to it. If Crowley wanted a heart-to-heart, he was going to get a heart-to-heart.

“Crowley, I had hoped that whatever we have, would be… well, something that would be consistent, without an end date. I do not like the reminder you would like a way out.”

Aziraphale finally met eyes with Crowley, who had taken off his sunglasses somewhere during their conversation.

“I thought you didn’t like our arrangement.”

“Not at first, no… But I missed it. I did not like the years we did not speak. I had decided to give you space.”

“I wasn’t technically avoiding you,” Crowley muttered quietly, giving Aziraphale the smallest grin.

“What are you talking about?”

“I took a nap.”

Aziraphale gave Crowley an incredulous look, looked away, and then narrowed his eyes at him once again.

“You’re not seriously suggesting that…”

“Yeup, slept through the First World War it seems, woke up from the first air raid of this one.”

“Eighty...-..”

“Yes, about eighty years.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Aziraphale muttered, but the corners of his lips were clearly tugging up.

“They think I did all of this.”

“You didn’t.. You wouldn’t do _this_.”

“Shhhh! They might hear!”

Now Aziraphale laughed, a sound that was a quite proper replacement for the music. “I’m glad you’re back and saved me, discorporation means a good five years of waiting.”

“They’re busy up there?”

“Not enough miracles, not enough vessels, it is quite an unholy time.”

“Hm, I suppose I’ll hear from you, then.”

Possibly the only way Crowley offered help was as a suggestion, but Aziraphale did appreciate it quite a lot.

This time, the silence that fell was more content between them. Crowley was happy, and thrilled, but felt it would be quite inappropriate to ask Aziraphale for a dinner or drink.

Still, he didn’t really want this moment to end.

“Well, thank you, for all of this. I’m... well, I’m glad I get to talk to you again,” Aziraphale muttered.

Aziraphale locked eyes with Crowley once again, and then, with a smile, opened the door, grabbing the book bag and stepping a foot outside.

A hand on his shoulder halted Aziraphale, who looked back at Crowley. Crowley seemed just as surprised that he had dared to touch him, quickly letting go. He blurted it out, a haunting sentence.

“Whatever eternity is, let’s experience it together, shall we?”

It was confidently said, as if it had been going through Crowley’s mind for a while now. And it had, for a hundred years, for that was what both of them thought of the other, right?

Someone to share eternity with.

Aziraphale felt the same sharp hot sensation in his neck, and had to stop the chanting that had just started in his mind.

_Eternitytogethereternitytogethereternitytogethereternitytogethereternitytogethereternitytogether_...

It burst up, a cacophony of sounds, thoughts, and feelings that didn’t only come from himself, so loud it was deafening.

He had no words to say to Crowley, for he did not understand what words would be correct for such a strong statement, for such strong _feelings._ He didn’t want to make promises he couldn’t keep.

Instead, Aziraphale briefly pressed his hand onto Crowley’s, a way to ensure him the touch had been okay.

“Good night, Crowley. It would be a pity if you overslept and I’d have to miss you again.”

A squeeze, and Aziraphale left the car.

The Bentley played a soft song on the way back to Crowley’s place.

_‘Bring it back, bring it back, don’t take it away from me because you don’t know... what it means to me.’_

[✧](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2bqm4gRY3mA)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley stepped inside, closed the door of his car…  
And locked eyes with Aziraphale, who was casually seated in the passenger seat.  
_Busted._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Click the ✧ for songs that fit the theme! (open in new tab)

There was never an excuse for Crowley and Aziraphale to meet for longer periods of time. The invitation for drinks or dinners from Crowley were often rejected by Aziraphale under the guise that people were starving, and it would be improper for two inhumans to eat when they wouldn’t need it.

They’d only meet if Aziraphale needed a favour. Often, they weren’t quite a lazy miracle, but far more nuanced.

Heaven gave Aziraphale a stack of miracles he could perform, but only enough to aid a handful. He couldn’t protect the resistance fighters whilst also pointing the US troops to secret nazi army bases. He couldn’t miracle up more food for starving families, whilst also making sure the letters of loved ones actually reached their destination.

That’s where Crowley came in, and he didn’t even need to perform miracles to help with half of the tasks Aziraphale requested him to do. Crowley happily helped with causing some chaos towards the nazis, and blowing up a group that was trying to intercept all the mail towards London was great fun!

Besides all that, Crowley had a bit of an ulterior motive. He had said something quite risky on the night they had made up. He knew this was how it always went; Crowley, as a demon should, would tempt Aziraphale, and Aziraphale would reject it strongly, only for him to do it wordlessly later.

This had felt different, however, for Aziraphale had not rejected it, nor had he accepted it. He had simply... ignored it, something that may be worse.

Aziraphale remained an angel towards Crowley. He was polite, kind, and sharp towards Crowley when he suggested anything evil, it was as always.

Then why wasn’t Crowley content with just that?

Aziraphale found home in the consistency of life on earth. The years of the World War were hard work, but flew past. As soon as the world started rebuilding itself again, the struggle truly began, and his mind was left occupied with thoughts he had been pushing down.

Eternity together was, in its own way, a risky way of describing their situation. It had an endless amount of meanings depending on who you asked. Aziraphale hadn’t been smart enough to ask for clarification, unfortunately. It had taken him eras to accept any form of cooperation between him and the demon, let alone accepting such an inherently risky proposal.

Aziraphale was lost, for there was no guide on how to handle the suggestion of a demon to spend eternity together.

Even if he technically had been doing so for at least the past three hundred years.

The years passed as usual. The world found its way to heal and blossom in a way of luxury and revolution. The youth became louder, the streets of London became more modern, and the churches were rebuilt in record time.

And the music, by god, Aziraphale found himself fond of the enjoyment of humans around him. The happiness and love were felt all around, which made quite an excellent environment for Aziraphale to thrive in. Good food, good wine, and good company, he had never enjoyed Soho as much as he did after the Second World War.

“Did you hear the story about Father Matthews the other day?”

The bookshop, often closed, had been visited by two pleasant ladies who had tricked their ways into Aziraphale’s bookstore. Not that they were really looking around as much, they were simply chatting. Aziraphale would guess they had simply walked into the nearest building for shelter. A man he would estimate around his early 20’s was still lingering in front of the entrance, which was enough evidence to confirm Aziraphale’s suspicions.

As long as the ladies did not attempt to purchase anything, Aziraphale would happily offer them shelter from unwanted attention.

“Oh? What about it?”

“Some shady folk have started hanging around his church lately, all dramatic in a sleek dark car and everything!”

“Are you suggesting...”

“Stealing from a church, the _nerve_!”

“What would they even steal? It just got rebuilt after the bombing of ‘41?”

Aziraphale had been slowly moving closer as the two women continued gossiping, for all of the details seemed to be no coincidence, and Aziraphale knew one thing of value that would be present in any church, unguarded.

_Holy water._

The stack of books next to him fell over at the exact time that Aziraphale realized what Crowley had been up to.

The two ladies looked at Aziraphale, who managed to force a polite smile onto his face as he walked over to them.

“My apologies for the ruckus, I’m closing early today for personal reasons. Would you be so kind to leave the store?”

“Oh, of—”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, the man that had still been preying on them outside disappearing into thin air before the women could give any objections.

They wouldn’t be bothered for the night, that was certain.

Aziraphale ushered the women outside, closing the bookshop and rushing to the back room.

He didn’t have much time to do what he had to do, but he would be _damned_ before he would allow Crowley to do anything stupid that would actually hurt him.

* * *

[✧](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=khNwJhWIphk)

Another risky meeting with the group meant they were finally in the final stages of getting shit done. Crowley sauntered to his Bentley, pushing his shades a little further onto his nose. The Bentley, sensing his presence, unlocked for him.

Crowley stepped inside, closed the door of his car…

And locked eyes with Aziraphale, who was casually seated in the passenger seat.

_Busted._

“What are you doing here?”

Aziraphale was happy to share his concerns with Crowley once again. Crowley knew it was dangerous, he himself had seen plenty of his kind melted away by holy water. Quite frankly, he had once thought that being in touch with an angel had been just as dangerous. But that’s why it was necessary. He needed insurance, not for Aziraphale and his collaboration to end, but…

For it to keep going. He needed the holy water to kill any demon that got wind of this. He needed to remain safe.

“…But I can’t have you risking your life...”

A small thermos came into view, Crowley felt on-edge almost instantly, for he knew what was in the thermos.

“The real thing…”

“The holiest.”

“After everything you said.”

Crowley carefully wrapped his fingers around the thermos, making sure his fingers did not touch those of Aziraphale. There was clear vulnerability in the gesture. The angel did not want to offer him something like this, did not want to be the reason for Crowley’s demise, and yet… He had given it to him.

He put the holy water out of sight as soon as he could.

There had been a distance between them, even in all the years they had made up, the realization that their arrangement had an end date hung above them.

The holy water caused that pressure just as much, Crowley really truly wanted it over and done with. Maybe then the angel would accept an invitation for lunch once again, or at least, recognize the proposal of eternity.

“Should I say thank you?” Crowley tried to lighten the mood, because that truly was a preposterous offer of politeness.

“Better not.”

Aziraphale seemed not to notice. He didn’t seem to look at Crowley at all.

Something dawned on Crowley, offering the holy water to him had _hurt_ Aziraphale in some way. Maybe a ‘thank you’ should have been a ‘sorry.’ But demons did not apologize.

Then again, they also didn’t thank someone for favours.

He was afraid that Aziraphale might leave the car once again, leaving without answers, and no way for Crowley to fix whatever he had certainly called upon him himself.

“Can I-uh…drop you anywhere?”

“No. Thank you.”

Well, that was it, then. Crowley pursed his lips, trying to think of any words that would keep the angel from heading off once more.

_Maybe a dinner, or an invitation to a tea, did he have any good wine in his cellar? He could miracle it up…_

“Don’t look so disappointed. Perhaps one day we could… I don’t know, go for a picnic.”

The bright neon lighting from outside the Bentley lit up past Aziraphale, creating a halo that felt almost fitting, for he smiled just a little fondly for a moment.

“Dine at the Ritz...” A breath, warm to the touch, that was how Aziraphale said it.

_They could go now!_

Crowley saw the invitation, but needed more time to plan something. If he could just drive a little, keep Aziraphale in the car just a little longer…

He might be able to convince him to talk. He might be able to find the right words to say _thank you _and maybe an _I’m sorry_.

“I’ll give you a lift, anywhere you wanna go.”

Crowley wanted to offer anything to show Aziraphale it was _alright_. He would not harm himself with the holy water, for he had promised an arrangement that would go on for as long as they both could. He remembered the reassuring pat on his hand back in ’41, the last time they had touched, and wondered if this was a reassuring gesture that might work.

Quite honestly, Crowley could do with a reassuring squeeze of his hand himself.

He lowered his hand to Aziraphale’s leg, where his hand was resting. He was slowly inching forward until his pinky finger made the first lingering touch, testing the waters for just a moment.

Aziraphale’s hand twitched for a moment, and just as Crowley was gathering the courage to grab his hand…

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.” (love love love - monsters and men)

Aziraphale left the car before Crowley could object. Crowley, his lips still parted, regarded him as he left the car and walked off.

Crowley’s hand went to the holy water almost instantly. He regarded it again, suppressing a shiver as he looked at the thermos.

Had it been worth it? The distance between them, the fights?

One day. One day it would be worth it. One day, as Aziraphale suggested, they’d be going for a picnic. Crowley was more into the idea of the Ritz, for they had quite lovely red wine.

Maybe one day, Aziraphale would answer his proposal for eternity, and Crowley would wait as long as Aziraphale would need.

For now, Crowley had to make sure he hauled himself back to his apartment as soon as possible. He needed to lock the water somewhere secret, somewhere safe. He was certain that owning holy water as a demon was enough evidence of conspiring against the higher ranks, and he wasn’t looking forward to defending himself.

After that, it was time for a much-needed sulking session, for that had certainly been the most embarrassing attempt at making things up with Aziraphale.

* * *

The phone, an ancient model as time went on, ringed ever so often. There were only about three people that called the number: telemarketers, Shadwell, and Aziraphale. Crowley often took his chances, and it often ended up with a telemarketer’s office having a power outage for a full day. Unforeseen circumstances, also known as ‘That’ll teach ‘em.’

Aziraphale did call, however. It was often work-related. They conspired, took over tasks, collaborated, and often ended it with a lovely dinner.

_Never at the Ritz, however. That was for Aziraphale to bring up._

Crowley created the M25, Aziraphale made all museums in London free for students. Crowley influenced the invention of reality TV, whereas Aziraphale helped in getting multiple influential books published. The Shakespeare Globe always received very royal donations, but both the angel and demon claimed this. They went to plays together, for it was often busy and reminded them of simpler times. Aziraphale claimed the food got worse, but Crowley doubted it.

And so they went on for years, meeting like they always had. Both would never admit to it, but it was most certainly a friendship. Whatever had been severed in the past was mending itself in time, and by the time the world found itself in a new millennium, Aziraphale’s bookshop was a place much frequented by Crowley. That is, if he wasn’t busy tempting humans in the most inconvenient but _damn_ smart ways (Aziraphale reminded everyone this was Crowley’s own words).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> armageddon was death's party, and the invitations had been printed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I'm an idiot. I completely skipped chapter 3 when posting this chapter, which means there was a big gap in the storytelling. Whoops! It's fixed now.

One might argue that angels and demons, as immortal beings, are not as burdened by the idea of death and beyond. This is, however, not entirely true. They are just as conscious that it’s all gonna end someday, but it takes longer, and might even never happen if they were lucky.

For now, the chances of an ‘end’ were about 50/50, but both sides were certain of their own survival.

Armageddon was death’s party, and the invitations had been printed.

[✧](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Vj-ry9n_wY)

(This was simply a manner of speech, of course. If Death had ever found the perfect stationery to send all angels and demons the invitation to the big war, Crowley surely would have never bothered to even open the envelope.)

Crowley had never thought he’d be the deliverer of the invitation, so to speak. He had not bothered to count the years earth had existed, for it wasn’t important in the eyes of immortality to count. Humans were obsessed with counting years, they always had, for life was short and birthdays were a thing that existed.

Crowley didn’t even have a birthday, he realized.

The Antichrist, however, did. He seemed to be a Leo.

Crowley decided he didn’t like Leos.

A million thoughts were going through his mind. Half of them were profanities, but the other half was much more eloquent. His mind stated clear facts:

In 11 years, the world would end.

In 11 years, heaven and hell would meet for the war that would end all wars.

In 11 years, the ‘eternity’ that Crowley had proposed to Aziraphale would come to an end.

_And they hadn’t even dined at the Ritz._

Hell was keeping its eyes on Crowley, he could feel it, like a spider that had accidentally found its way onto your back.

As soon as the baby was placed in the excitedly-shaking hands of one of the satanic nuns, Crowley made it a challenge how quickly he could get away from prying eyes. As soon as the sensation stopped, he attempted to call Aziraphale.

Of course, trying to call Aziraphale after you brought down the entire mobile phone line in England was not working, even though Crowley really wished it did.

He stopped by the nearest phone booth and called, and Aziraphale miraculously answered.

* * *

Crowley would love to extend his life on earth a little longer, and something told him Aziraphale thought exactly the same. Nonetheless, all his suggestions of working together were firmly rejected.

Aziraphale was fumbling, however, which suggested his rejections were virtuous, but not his own.

“No! I am not. Interested.” The angel raised his voice, firmly gesturing with his hands to signify his decision.

And then he turned his back towards Crowley, intending to walk away.

Crowley had been holding back on bold invitations for years, and had always been cautious to invite Aziraphale lest he would go too fast. However, life was short nowadays, and Crowley had to grab every opportunity with both hands.

“Well, let’s have lunch!” he blurted out, which was enough to halt Aziraphale. “I still… Owe you one! From-...” Crowley tried to recall it as well as possible, tried to think of a way to make it less obvious that his demeanour had changed significantly now that there was an end date in sight.

“Paris…” Aziraphale finished, “1793.”

Crowley gave Aziraphale a toothy grin, snapping his fingers. The passenger side’s door opened, and Aziraphale paused for a moment, then stepped in.

“Thank y—”

“Don’t mention it.”

* * *

The Bentley made a roaring sound much alike the modern race cars of the century, Aziraphale decided it was a proper replacement for a horse: just as temperamental. The only difference was that Crowley seemed to have a little bit more control over this way of transport.

As if on cue, the Bentley’s radio started playing the familiar sound of Queen’s Under Pressure.

[✧](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a01QQZyl-_I)

_Like he said, only a little bit._

For the first time in a while, the erratic way Crowley drove wasn’t the only thing making Aziraphale antsy. He caught himself fumbling, his mind too bothered by so many realizations to really consider that it wasn’t a good example to be caught fumbling about.

Crowley snapped his fingers, the radio stopped playing.

For as much as the angel and demon both preferred their own spots, there was only one place that had really been a consistent part of their meetings.

It was the Bentley. The bookshop, sure, Crowley loved coming over and rambling about all of god’s creations, but the Bentley was what got him there. The Bentley was where Crowley had first made the proposal of eternity, and it was the first place where Aziraphale had firmly rejected it not much later.

Well, he hadn’t truly rejected it. Surely Crowley knew that Aziraphale was an angel of his word, and when he had asked, there was no insurance that eternity was something he could promise Crowley. He barely knew if he owned eternity himself. It was, in the words of many, _ineffable_.

But the upcoming 11 years were _his_, and just a small part of eternity. An excellent place to start.

The Bentley turned a sharp corner, Aziraphale could barely steady himself. “Crowley! Dear…”

“Where to?”

There were 11 years of choices ahead of them. Aziraphale could sense them, could sense the heavy weight on their shoulders, the one that came with wings.

“Hmmm… How about the Ritz…?”

A million things happened at once, just like it always did on earth. This time, it all happened in the Bentley.

The Bentley’s car radio brought out a cacophony of sounds, the speed pointer went dangerously high. Aziraphale heard the worried screams of several pedestrians as they jumped out of the way, a car honked so loudly, but it didn’t even beat it over the loud music.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale warned. Crowley, however, did not show any sign of catching the warning tone, his spectacles still fully pointed in the direction of Aziraphale. He was unashamedly _gawking_. There was a T-split coming up, and they were driving right into a lovely café if Crowley kept going like that.

“Crowley!”

“Wha-What-WHHH!”

[✧](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IzTlPjgJfTk)

The Bentley drove just past a lantern as Crowley turned the corner, Aziraphale had to collect himself to drown out all the curses of pedestrians.

“YES! Let’s go to the Ritz!” Crowley interjected before Aziraphale could chide him for his careless behaviour.

Aziraphale had to suppress a grin.

* * *

The Ritz was, besides the history behind the invitation, just like any regular dinner experience. Aziraphale ate and drank, Crowley only did the latter, and then a bit more.

And afterwards, to hell with it: Crowley clanged against the glass, announcing that he was quite in the mood to get drunk.

And Aziraphale, though having warned about the use of alcohol to sedate a mind, was happy to join in.

And oh, Crowley was high on adrenaline, high on the panic that was like blood racing through his corporeal form. Eleven years, a minute less. Aziraphale took a little too long on opening a bottle, Crowley snapped his fingers to open it right up. “Time is limited, angel, let’s not waste it.”

An idea blossomed between them, a secret, an inside joke: Aziraphale could never say yes to him. It was like a curse, a virtue to never be tempted by him.

But cancelling each other out had brought _Hamlet_ into the world. Cancelling each other out had created the internet, and oh, cancelling each other out might just do the truly miraculous thing of preventing the apocalypse.

_If done correctly._

Something lit up in Aziraphale’s eyes, a certain realization that sparked something within Crowley as well.

Was that what hope felt like? Crowley was afraid he was quite unfamiliar with most positively-labeled feelings, but that seemed like hope.

Aziraphale offered out a hand to shake. A non-verbal yes. Crowley, giddy with excitement, caught himself smiling quite earnestly. He took it, shook it, and had to force himself to let go again. He rambled on to secure himself in the idea of their upcoming collaboration. Aziraphale seemed quite comfortable with the idea, especially when the word ‘godfathers’ was dropped.

“Well I’ll be _damned_.”

“It’s not that bad when you get used to it,” Crowley teased, knowing quite well what Aziraphale’s limits were and how to tempt him just a little to collaborate with him on his schemes.

Pity that this strategy had not seemed to work on more important things, like getting an answer on an aged proposal, for example.

Aziraphale gave Crowley quite an incredulous look. Crowley often stopped himself from laughing when Aziraphale acted offended, but victory was mostly on his side. He allowed himself to laugh, a sharp sound that mixed with Aziraphale’s laughter, who could see the humour in it all as well.

“Well, how about that plan, then?” Aziraphale said, prompting Crowley to immediately get into scheming. “Okay, hear me out…”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warlock was surrounded by magic, but it never came from him.  
  
(Open ✧ in new tab for music recs!)

The Dowling mansion was quite a charming piece of architecture. Humans would describe it as ‘enormous,’ with its facade suggesting quite an American twist, even if one ignored the US flag. Four bathrooms, five bedrooms, and a living room that was twice the size of Aziraphale’s bookshop.

The expansive garden housed the living quarters of the crowd that kept the US ambassador’s house spick and span. A dedicated group of men and women (and the genderless in regards to Crowley and Aziraphale) were never too far away to listen to all the wishes of the actual inhabitants, which were often only Mrs. Dowling and young Warlock.

And the security guards, oh lord above, were something both Crowley and Aziraphale would rather have loved to get rid of.

The thing was, the ‘security guards’ stated previously were not the men in suits that were often carrying guns around. No, this concerned the occult ones that had their eyes on the Dowling household from the very beginning.

“They won’t always be looking, of course,” Crowley had begun on the night of Warlock’s birth, the first curlers applied in his hair to show Aziraphale the planned look for his disguise.

“demons don’t trust each other is the thing, and Hastur really likes to find something to use against me.” He dramatically rolled his eyes. “You discorporate a demon _once_ and it’s immediately a Vendetta, bit tiring if you ask me.”

This meant that Aziraphale and Crowley saw each other more than ever in the first year, but rarely spoke.

And the clock kept ticking towards the apocalypse.

* * *

“It’s been three months.”

Aziraphale almost dropped the freshly-picked daisies from his hands at the sudden appearance of Crowley besides him. Well, not necessarily Crowley, more Miss Ashtoreth, who had brought an umbrella, and was conveniently putting it up just as it started raining lightly above the Dowling’s garden.

“Quite some manners you teach the child, my dear.” Aziraphale scoffed, but gratefully stepped beneath the umbrella. He could feel the lingering sensation of Crowley’s miracle, and Aziraphale was sure he was the one who had made it rain.

“Aziraphale, _listen_.”

“I _am_, It is just that not everyone is inside yet, and I have not finished this bouquet of wildflowers just yet.”

Aziraphale didn’t have to see the way Crowley moved his lips into a firm line to know he did it. He was impatient, and obviously had something important to say.

He picked a few more daisies, then offered it out to Crowley. “Like it?”

“Daisies don’t bloom in early spring,”

“And rain has its limits of how locally it appears.”

“Fair point.” Crowley took the daisies.

The appreciators of the first sun in months were finally fully inside, doors were locked, and Crowley and Aziraphale were left alone in the expansive garden, which was impeccable except for the charming imperfections. Crowley was holding some of them.

“It’s been three months since I’ve sensed anything from below.”

“Which means…”

“Yes, they’ve grown bored.”

“_Excellent_.”

You get used to the small regularities that came with life on earth. Aziraphale’s regularities lay in good books, good food, and a good conversation once in a while. Crowley had been an excellent conversation partner, and the angel had been growing antsy. He had never known how close they had actually become, now that he had to act like they were perfect strangers, nothing more than colleagues.

Aziraphale, who had only bothered to stand besides Crowley without really looking at him, turned himself to come face to face with the demon. He offered out a hand, the kindest smile on his face, the one he reserved for special humans. “Quite _lovely_ to meet you, Nanny Ashtoreth, I don’t believe we have met.”

It took Crowley a second to gather himself, realizing what Aziraphale was doing. He then flashed a fanged grin, shaking his hand politely. He made sure his voice was an octave higher than it had ever been before, a twinkle of bells, for as much as a demon’s voice might ever sound like it.

“It is a pleasure, especially if you keep providing flowers for me. In fact, I must state it is _required_ for you to provide me flowers.”

The rain stopped, a small ray of sun got through the clouds, bringing heat with it and the pleasant smell of ozone. Crowley looked up in surprise, for it was like a spotlight on their backs, warm and pleasant.

_And it had broken through his ten-minute miracle._

Aziraphale cleared his throat, for he knew what had happened, and that was quite a bit embarrassing. He had not wished to make whatever warmth he had felt at that point peek through, but whatever lay on the surface of his being was tough to hide from shining through.

“I suppose I must go then, I have to prepare the flowers for our next meeting.”

“Angel,”

It worked, Aziraphale halted. He didn’t really want to. However, angels loved to keep promises, and Aziraphale had made one to himself. This one was quite straightforward: make the upcoming 11 years worth it. It was all he might get.

He turned, just slightly, and took a good honest moment to regard Crowley. Crowley, who had, in his own way, created a disguise that was both horrifying and inviting at the same time. A figure for Warlock to look up to, but also the role who might chide him for all the right or wrong reasons. Aziraphale had missed this Crowley, for history had often been unkind to the more fluid looks. Aziraphale missed his own beige and white suit, for it would have fit with Crowley’s disguise awfully well.

Aziraphale had ended up missing a lot, what a cruel fate.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“Y-Yes, me as well.”

* * *

[✧](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c-B5yr2zyY0)

Warlock believed in magic. Do not get him wrong, most children of six would believe in witches and wizards. Yet he was certain there was something of magic surrounding the manor he called his home. He’d be correct in more ways than one, of course, except for the one truth that even took Crowley and Aziraphale 11 years to conclude.

Warlock was surrounded by magic, but it never came from him. The garden of the manor was impeccable with only one gardener. The books were always immediately put in the same order, even if Warlock took out about 20 of them. They always found their places as soon as he left the room. He was certain no one had come in to change them, because it sometimes only took a second of looking away.

But the most magical place of the manor grounds was a room no one was really supposed to go.

Nanny’s room.

The thing about Nanny’s room was that it was in a separate building on the manor’s grounds. Warlock had never had an excuse to really go there and explore. This didn’t mean he never did, but Warlock, as much as he was encouraged to sometimes misbehave, never felt the inclination to do so towards his nanny.

And he respected the nanny’s privacy. It was the only thing she didn’t like to answer questions about. And Warlock asked a _lot_ of questions, just as any young child with a healthy curiosity might do.

However, it had been a sleepless night, and Warlock needed a bedtime story really badly. He had snuck to the staff’s cottage in his pajamas, and had been pleasantly surprised that there was still one room lit.

There were no such things as coincidences in the lives of angels and demons. If there was a happy coincidence, it was most likely a thing because a demon had wished it so. Or, in this case, because a demon had _subconsciously_ wished it to be as such.

It was therefore not a coincidence that it had been the nanny’s room that was still lit. It was also not a coincidence that Warlock snuck inside, tried the door, and found himself sneaking into Nanny’s private quarters somewhere past midnight.

_You see, Crowley was proud of his living quarters, and had wished for someone to see it._

The living quarters that the staff stayed in was comfortably spacious, but in the case of Crowley’s living quarters, it felt quite crowded.

The room was lit by an unknown source of light. It reminded Warlock much of sunlight. At that time, this did not seem possible.

Then again, this lack of logic was completely ignored by the observation that requested his attention quite a bit more. You see, the entire room, and every surface that it possessed, was covered in vases that held the most wide arrange of different bouquets. White roses stood in front of the most gorgeous orange lilies. Tulips in every colour of the rainbow had taken over the small kitchenette counter. Gerberas stood on the floor and created a path towards a large and seemingly comfortable old lounge chair. The chair in question was the only piece of furniture that wasn’t covered in flowers. It was made of a dark fabric, and in it sat Nanny Ashtoreth, seemingly camouflaged by her own dark clothes. She was regarding Warlock, her hand in the process of putting away a book she had been reading.

“It is quite past your bedtime,” she stated. Warlock cleared his throat, trying to find the words he might say first.

“Why do you have all these flowers?”

“Why aren’t you in bed?” Nanny countered.

“I couldn’t sleep.” Warlock spotted a smaller bouquet than all the extravagant ones. A small collection of daisies in the smallest vase. He didn’t know people made vases like that. Didn’t people usually like big bouquets?

“We used to have daisies in our garden.” Not a question, just a statement. Nanny Ashtoreth did not show any indication that she was going to answer the before-mentioned question.

“Would you like me to tell you a bedtime story?”

“I would, yes.”

Nanny Ashtoreth stood up, putting her book away and offering out her hand for Warlock to take.

The walk to the manor was through a dew-filled field of grass. The night was clear, and showed off the pleasant scattered collection of stars. It was a beautiful night.

“I really like your room, Nanny.”

“Of course, Warlock. It is a beautiful room.”

“Are the flowers from this garden?”

“They are.”

“I haven’t seen daisies in our garden for quite a while, you must water them well.”

When Nanny spoke again, it was with a hint of amusement. Young boys did not understand the short-lived pleasantries of flowers. The daisies in question had been in top condition for five months now, and Crowley was not planning on ever seeing them wilt.

“I water them very well. You see, everything is possible if you put your mind to it, remember that.”

Warlock fell asleep quite soon after Nanny’s bedtime story that night. The bedtime story had described quite an extraordinary amount of gore, but he just dreamt of flowers.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instead, Aziraphale simply reached for Crowley’s hand, which had been casually resting on his leg anyway. It wasn’t too big of a reach.  
  
Crowley’s hand was gone before he could take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Open ✧ in new tab!

It was a perfect winter and a perfect summer when Warlock turned 7. Life surrounding the manor grounds grew quieter as time went on. The gardener only came every once in a while, and the nanny had been replaced with school. Then came the last Christmas that Crowley and Aziraphale would experience before they would be announcing their resignation.

The Dowling mansion had been their home for months and years. Yes, they traveled to London as much as they could, but...

It was, in itself, a good excuse for Aziraphale to keep his bookshop closed.

And Crowley quite despised the traffic around London.

This Christmas, the both of them found themselves on a bus to London. They had both agreed to invite the other for Christmas drinks. The Ritz, maybe, or something more cozy instead. The Ritz was overcrowded on Christmas days. Look, Aziraphale did not particularly care about a table becoming free once in a while, but at Christmas, he could spare a bit of virtue and be selfless.

“I have a lovely red wine,” Aziraphale muttered, leaning back to talk to Crowley. Crowley had been seated in the bench behind Aziraphale, leaning to the front so they could still talk. It would have been easier to simply sit beside each other, but their perspective of ‘logic’ had never been a straight line.

London was lit up like a Christmas tree. The streets were filled with lights, but they had never seen such little traffic in London as in that moment.

And then there was the bookshop. It had been cold and dusty until their arrival. Two snaps of the finger and it was back to cozy, warm, and decorated with a few Christmas lights. The lights in question, however, had a bit of a Shrödinger’s tic: Crowley kept wishing them away, and Aziraphale wished them right back.

It took a bottle of wine to distract Crowley enough and permit the lights to stay.

And the rest is history in the grand scheme of things.

But in the small-ish scheme of things, it is recalled by both as follows.

The drinks started spilling like they always did. Not a bottle in reach was safe. It was as cozy of a night as one could wish for. The type of night you wished to have after all your family has left the party, but is often ruined by the realization that there are at least 36 plates to wash up.

“You don’t quite get it, lo-look, it’s a frog, and, and...” Crowley made a vague circular motion with both his hands. It did not bring across the message at all. Aziraphale, however, nodded.

“Hm-Hm... like the amphibians...”

“A-Angel…”

Aziraphale stared dumbfounded at Crowley, who gave him a warning stare. It took him a second to connect the dots.

“Oh! They are one and the same!”

Aziraphale guffawed, leaning forward and waving off the dumb comment. He had to steady himself in the new position, and casually decided that Crowley, whose leg was right there, was just what he needed.

It set off something different, as it always did. The mood, which had been a beautiful maroon before, if Aziraphale had to explain it in human terms, had changed quickly to a mossy green. Aziraphale quickly took his hand off Crowley’s leg, leaning back.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

“Of course it’s fine, why wouldn’t it be?”

“You just tensed up, the room went all green, and, uh... blue?”

“Use your words for good, angel.”

“I don’t— Ugh…”

Aziraphale had no words to explain all that went on. It would take him a spill of his heart, which was quite dangerous to do in general, but was even more than he had ever dared to do towards Crowley. It was all so new, and all so sudden now that he was facing quite a bit of time constraint.

Instead, Aziraphale simply reached for Crowley’s hand, which had been casually resting on his leg anyway. It wasn’t too big of a reach.

Crowley’s hand was gone before he could take it.

“Angel,”

“Crowley.” He didn’t dare to even state the tension between them, as though bringing it up might summon even more problems.

Yellow met pale blue, Aziraphale stopped reaching, and instead, simply let his hand hover in the space between the two of them. An invitation, rather than a reach.

Crowley’s eyes regarded it. He didn’t stop staring at it, as if the angel’s hand might spontaneously combust.

“My dear boy. I think you know by now that my touches don’t hurt a demon.”

“I know.”

“Then take it this time.”

“It is not for me to take it.” A matter of fact, as if it had been rehearsed. Maybe it was.

“So you won’t take it, but I’m also not allowed to grab yours, what a conundrum.”

Both their bodies had, as the sun might melt snow, evaporated all of the alcohol.

* * *

_And holy thee are, covered in light as scattered as silk_

It truly was a conundrum. But they were both the other side of the same coin. In Crowley’s head, it all didn’t make sense anymore.

One thing made sense, however. He had found a way to bring Aziraphale into this mess he had created, and although it had all been a what if, the sudden realization was there that it wasn’t a ‘what if’ anymore. It might not have been for a while.

For once, the tempting had been successful, and it was all Crowley’s fault.

Aziraphale might never forgive him for it.

“So I have done it,”

“Excuse me?”

“I have tempted you, then.”

Aziraphale’s hand wavered slightly, but then kept hovering between the two of them.

How stubborn, did he not see? It had been an elaborate scheme. How could the serpent of Eden ever be trustworthy? He himself had nudged Eve on, and now he was doing the same, a good 6000 years later, to Aziraphale.

“I’m afraid I do not understand.”

“You know what you are putting on the line here, correct?”

[✧](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s6mAkpWJ8gw)

“I do, yes.”

“What you are risking?”

“Y-Yes.”

“You could fall.”

The hand between the two of them shook again, Aziraphale lowered it to rest on his own leg, palm still up, still available for Crowley to put his hand in.

There it went, he was finally realizing what a massive mistake this was, finally seeing the light—

Aziraphale let out a soft sigh, closing his eyes and breathing for a few times. Neither of them needed oxygen, but that didn’t stop him from practicing the human form of mindfulness once in a while, apparently. Each sigh brought waves of calmth with it, as if Aziraphale had cocooned them in his wings. However, they were still nowhere to be seen.

“I think you may have wrongly assumed something about me, Crowley.”

“That you are easily tempted?”

“No, not that. I think we both know that I have been quite good at telling you off.”

“That you are gullible?” Crowley had made a list of bad things, apparently.

Aziraphale opened an eye to give another warning gaze.

“Not quite. You have made the assumption that I do not see truth and honesty when it is right in front of me, you have made the assumption that I do not think my decisions through. Frankly, I must say, I feel a little bit offended.”

Crowley decided to not answer.

“But I forgive you. Because you can’t fake _this_.”

Aziraphale didn’t have to touch Crowley. A shock made every fibre of Crowley’s body stand on-edge. It was like a flash-flood, all at once, the emotions drowning out the tension, the conversation, and any word they had traded before Aziraphale had done _that_.

Suddenly, Crowley understood what Aziraphale meant when he stated he had sensed love. Because it was, in its own, a warmth and anxiety, and prickles of burning hot embers in his neck, his cheeks, and his hands.

The confrontation of these feelings was too much, Crowley caught himself flinching away from them. It took another second, and then the flood was gone, as if it might have never been there.

With it came emptiness.

“What did you just do to me?” Crowley hissed it, every fibre of his being was still on-edge, preparing for anything that might return. He really did not want to think how that might have been the sensation of breathlessness. He kinda understood why humans didn’t like it.

“See it as a time capsule,” Aziraphale said, his hand offered out to Crowley once again. “London, 1967.”

The hand was back between them. Crowley regarded it once again, almost scared that even touching it might bring across the same surge of emotions Aziraphale had just made him feel.

“Don’t do that again.”

“I won’t. Take my hand, _please_.”

“You’re really stubborn, you know that right?”

Aziraphale didn’t really respond to that. He still had his hand up, an invitation that might set things in motion. (Gee I sure hope this doesn’t awaken anything within me)

Crowley felt sick to his stomach. Then, as soon as he realized it had happened, he thought his stomach away. Now he just felt sick to his nonexistent stomach.

This was all he had wanted for the longest time, and now that it was here, every fibre in his being wanted to run away from it. How odd, this was what happiness could be.

This was, in both their perspectives, _what sharing eternity could be_.

“I don’t want to be the cause of you falling, angel.”

Crowley had not meant to make his voice break. Regardless, it cracked on ‘want’ and made the rest of the words seem extremely forced, as if it took significantly extra effort.

The room dimmed, leaving a gentle glow behind. It was darker than before, which made Aziraphale look all the more impressive as he unfurled his wings.

They were as pale white as marble, and with a span-width much larger than the room they were in. Crowley had not seen Aziraphale’s wings quite as often recently. Sometimes, it had only been a brief flicker.

A pity, Crowley kind of liked seeing them. It brought him right back to their first meeting. The start of something, well, ineffable. Aziraphale made it seem that way at least. With the way he was avoiding to ever explicitly state anything.

_Crowley had liked the flowers though._

“You won’t be, Crowley. And, can I ask you just the smallest question?”

Crowley made a vague gesture that clearly meant ‘go on.’

“What good is there in the above if the below has you?”

“You wouldn’t like hell.”

“But I’d like earth, with you.”

It seemed believable. And it wasn’t the simple reminder that Aziraphale was an angel that made it believable. No, it was Aziraphale’s softness, the kindness, and the way his wings were creating a cocoon that made Crowley believe all that had been said.

Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand.

* * *

The day Nanny left was the same day that all flowers wilted. The room, previously a small paradise, was filled with the sickening scent of rot. Warlock, who had finally gathered the courage to explore the abandoned room, had found it. It was a nightmare that might have traumatized any other child. Warlock, however, had dreamt of violence and gore for years, and simply looked at the room with a healthy fascination.

The garden of the Dowling mansion never looked as perfect as it did during Brother Francis’ years of employment.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had to admit, wanting the forbidden was a flaw that humans and the serpent of Eden had in common.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Open ✧ in new tab for a song that fits the theme!

They had 3.5 years of freedom before All Would End™. A trademark that Crowley once added into a text towards Aziraphale, greatly confusing him. Not necessarily because Aziraphale didn’t know what a trademark was. It was, however, a seemingly impossible symbol for his ancient phone to understand.

Crowley was the only one who texted him. Well, not the only one. He was the only one who ever received a reply, however.

The Dowling mansion had been their own tiny Eden. A human to babysit, and a garden to keep. Now that it was over, there was a homesickness covering their return to London. Neither of them missed the contact with the Dowlings, or the beautiful lack of biblical books on their shelves.

So what did they miss?

Well, stating it would be fairly inappropriate.

Their homesickness, however, miraculously disappeared whenever they went on their monthly checkup. This usually meant they simply sat around as Mrs. Dowling and young Warlock went for a trip. Sometimes this was the park, though it often was a restaurant where they served more champagne than appetizers. Mrs. Dowling was then often accompanied by one of her many ‘girlfriends.’ Aziraphale was certain the word had a different meaning than the way she had decided to use it.

Warlock did not do much. For a human child, he did quite enough. As the Antichrist however? Crowley had at least expected a glowing gaze, or an unexplained death in the area.

Alas, he liked the bottle of champagne he got to share with the angel every once in a while. Let it stay that way, Crowley thought, for it meant eternity was at their doorsteps.

* * *

Aziraphale’s phone, which was buried beneath 3 weeks’ worth of newspapers, buzzed one, two, three times. An annoying fly, the angel thought, who had just closed up shop after being open for a single minute.

The phone buzzed for a fourth time.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, the phone appearing in his hand. The old Nokia was unimpressive, but did the job.

[CROWLEY: 4 MESSAGES]

_MRS DOWLING IS HEADING TO THE RITZ TODAY._

_WANT TO GO?_

_SHE IS BRINGING WARLOCK, BY THE WAY._

_I_ _ MADE SURE OF IT._

Aziraphale had to suppress a scoff at the messages. The meetings were getting more frequent. Where it had often taken 5 weeks for the invitation to come, it now regularly took only 3. It was good, though also a tad unpleasant. They really only met when Warlock went out, which made it significantly more difficult to invite Crowley for literally _anything else_.

There were too many unspoken things between them, and no arrangement to keep them organized.

And so, Aziraphale texted back.

_I would love to. When?_

BE THERE IN FIVE

_5 PM?_

MINUTES

* * *

[✧](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PI3LAgGBxqU)

_Dining at the Ritz we’ll meet at 9..._

Crowley glared at the Bentley’s radio as if it might see it as a warning to stop. It had never done so before, of course, and it wasn’t going to do so any time soon.

Even then, he didn’t really bother to turn the radio off. He simply turned the volume of it way down. Just in time for his arrival at Aziraphale’s bookstore. Aziraphale, who had had his experience with the demon using the rather loud honk of the car, had learned his lesson. He rushed outside before Crowley could, offering just a small wave in greeting as he made his way to the passenger seat.

“Afternoon,”

“Were you busy?”

“Quite. I was just reading about the life of A.A Milne, if you must know.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell, was he the one that was killed or the one that committed adultery?” Crowley muttered absentmindedly as he drove off.

Aziraphale gave him a short glance, pursing his lips.

“The one that wrote Winnie the Pooh.”

“Ah.”

Silence fell between them. Aziraphale, clearly a bit bothered by it, reached for the volume dial of the Bentley’s radio.

“No—”

Too late. The Bentley, as if Crowley had simply paused the song before, started up with the same tune.

_Ohhh love, ohhh loverboy..._

Crowley snapped his fingers, the music changed to the common tunes one might hear on BBC Radio. He wouldn’t argue that it was any better.

“So, the Dowlings are in London, then.”

“Yes.”

“To the Ritz of all places?”

“Uh-huh.”

“A lovely... coincidence. I haven’t been to the Ritz in quite a while.”

Crowley narrowly avoided a cyclist. Some might argue not driving it over was an act of evil in itself.

“Bookshop’s been busy as well, then?”

“Oh, very. It seems it has now been labeled as ‘exclusive’ due to me being rarely there. Humans love the things they can rarely get.”

Oh Crowley knew. It was, in itself, one of the things that he knew best about humans. They love the scarce, the unachievable, the forbidden.

“Thought of naming your bookshop something apple-focused next?”

“Ha ha, a new divine name is just what I need.” Crowley could sense sarcasm, but mostly cared about the amusement that radiated off the angel. It was something that set the mood just right.

He had to admit, wanting the forbidden was a flaw that humans and the serpent of Eden had in common.

* * *

The Ritz was crowded. It always was. The only people who could really go for a prompt visit to the Ritz were ambassadors, the queen, and miracle workers. Even now, Crowley had done at least three demonic miracles to end up here. Not that he’d tell Aziraphale.

Not that it needed telling. He had heard the tone behind the word ‘coincidence.’

Mrs. Dowling and Warlock were seated at the prime spot of the Ritz. Crowley rarely gave up their spot like that, but it was an excellent place to keep their eyes on them. Well, Crowley would also be able to rotate his neck 180 degrees to look behind him, but he wasn’t certain that would be very pleasant for anyone around.

To describe the Ritz was to describe a home. One did not see the charm in it until you were seated. The food itself was reasonable enough for most picky eaters. Crowley only caught himself being a bit peckish, possibly for the first time this month. (Well, if a month was only three weeks.)

They ordered an afternoon tea. It absolutely delighted the angel.

Mrs. Dowling ordered the same, though decided to forego the usual tea for a lovely glass of Prosecco. Warlock was watching a video on her smartphone.

Only a few more years to build something up. A few more years of tense countdowns that would never reach the news until the humans were far too late. The Mayan calendar had cracked them all up, because the humans were on the right track, just a few years off.

Crowley had gone to the mountains where some of the gullible Americans had gathered. It had been good fun to start a massive thunderstorm and watch them all scream. Aziraphale had never really appreciated the story, however. Then again, it was the only joy that could soothe the pain of the real apocalypse.

Crowley regarded Aziraphale. The topics changed. From the magicians Aziraphale had met through the ages, to Crowley favourite stories about the Romans.

The finger sandwiches and scones were eaten with much love by both sides. It took them a while, however, for their words spilled like a glass of red wine on a white table cloth: inevitable and unstoppable.

“Ever been to Egypt?”

“Only during the Roman empire’s golden age.”

“Oh that was _delightful_. I adored their love for good scrolls.”

“You could read hieroglyphs?” Crowley raised an eyebrow.

Aziraphale fixed his bowtie, a thing he tended to do if he was going to act a little smug. He raised his chin a little.

“I still can, such a joyful script.”

“So, let me get this straight...” Crowley pointed a cucumber sandwich in Aziraphale’s direction. “You can read hieroglyphs, speak in yee olde English, talk in permanent variations of Iambic pentameters, but here you are, not a word of French?”

“A bit! I speak a bit of French!”

“Not enough to save your own life it seems!”

“Crowley!”

Crowley quickly stuck out his tongue to Aziraphale, which was enough to break the facade of the angel’s amusement. He even dared a little bit of tongue back, which made Crowley’s whole day, definitely.

This was what life on earth was about. Not the jobs, the task to make the lives of humans as miserable as possible. It was about the things in between. The tv shows that humans made with their endless imagination, the music, and sometimes the food. Life’s pleasures were, well, like the word suggested, life’s pleasures. Something needed to be alive for it, and it sure as heaven didn’t suggest angels or demons. They had no pressure, no end, no deadline. It could take angels millennia to think up anything, and Crowley didn’t expect Hastur to write something on the same level of ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ either any time soon.

Life on earth, and all its enjoyments, was encapsulated in Crowley and Aziraphale having an afternoon tea at the Ritz.

The finger sandwiches had reduced to crumbs, the leftover clotted cream still stuck to the discarded knives on the table. They were done, and yet, they both decided to go for another cup of tea (or coffee, for Crowley). It was pleasantly cheerful, there was no reason for them both to become bitter, and their chairs had already shifted a little closer to each other. Crowley had had his eyes on something besides Aziraphale’s face, the Antichrist, or his black coffee, however.

Crowley kept catching himself staring at Aziraphale’s hand, which was casually resting between them on the table. The angel sometimes fumbled a little with a napkin, or used the hand to take a sip of his tea. However, it was mostly just there, present.

It was so easy to simply reach out and…

It wasn’t like Crowley hadn’t held Aziraphale’s hand before. Sometimes after that one Christmas, when drinks spilled, he risked a moment of contact. It wasn’t a lot, sometimes Crowley did it only to assure to himself that it was still allowed by the angel. Aziraphale had frankly never minded.

However, that had been in Aziraphale’s bookshop, briefly in the car as a way to quickly say goodbye with a squeeze of the hand, it had never been so public before.

It wouldn’t look so odd. Crowley would only have to take a sip of his cup of coffee, place it in front of Aziraphale’s hand as well, let his hand slide over—

Before Crowley could even set his plan in action, Aziraphale’s hand covered his on the table. It brought him back to the here and now again, and Aziraphale had been talking about… Ah, the Industrial Revolution, he was supposed to have been listening to a story about the Industrial Revolution. Frankly, Crowley couldn’t name a single thing Aziraphale might have told him. He had simply nodded a little.

He regarded the way Aziraphale’s hand was still gently resting on his, warm and comforting.

“Crowley, may I ask you something?”

“If it’s about the Industrial Revolution, I must warn you, I slept through some of it.”

“No, no, not about that.” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes fondly, which made Crowley’s stomach briefly feel like it had had a scone too much.

“You know… That you really don’t have to meet me under the pretense of work, right?”

That shocked Crowley for a moment. It did not seem to match the topic of their conversation. Had he accidentally nodded a few times too much?

“Wah? Well…”

“I mean that you can just invite me for lunch next time,” Aziraphale said it so quick that Crowley mouthed it again just to make sure he had heard it correctly.

“If you are suggesting that I’ve been making excuses to see you—”

“No. No I am not suggesting it—”

“Oh but you are.”

“I am _stating_ it. And it’s okay.”

“Okay but I haven’t. If I had wanted to see you, I would have.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, _Angel_.” Crowley spit the word, almost, leaning forward as if it might make his point come across better.

“So we’re here to…?”

“Well,_ I _am here to watch the Dow—”

Crowley’s eyes left Aziraphale for a moment to land on the prime table that the Dowlings had been seated at. Yes, _had been_. Now, an elderly couple was enjoying some champagne. They might have been movie stars once.

“Dow… lings?” Aziraphale tilted his head in mock curiosity, raising an eyebrow. He wasn’t smiling, but there was a glint of amusement easily readable in his gaze.

The final blow. “They left thirty minutes ago, walked past our table.”

“Ah.” Crowley felt bright embers burn on his cheek, using the hand that had previously been beneath Aziraphale’s hand to rub them off. There had been no embers, of course, but it had felt like it.

“Well, I will give you the benefit of the doubt this time.” Aziraphale took the last sip of his tea. “It stands, however. If you would like to go for lunch, not work-related, well, I don’t know, I _might_ be tempted.”

“It’s been noted, but I already knew that. This was work-related.”

“Fine.” They both stood up, Crowley caught himself being strangely high on adrenaline as he downed the last of his coffee whilst walking towards the exit, handing a passing waiter the empty cup as he followed Aziraphale outside.

“Lift home?”

“Yes please.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shrill shriek interrupted the Tchaikovsky that was playing in the bookshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> press ✧ for a song that fits the theme of the scene!

A shrill shriek interrupted the Tchaikovsky that was playing in the bookshop. Aziraphale, who had busied himself with dusting the collection of misspelled bibles, quickly dropped his equipment to rush to the source of it. Between the shelves of badly-drawn biblical monster books and a high shelf of banned religious story books, a young woman was pointing at an empty space between them, her mouth covered with the other hand. She was frozen in place, and it took a moment for Aziraphale to get her attention.

“Excuse me ma’am, are you okay?” He carefully made his way to stand next to her, hoping his presence might bring some comfort.

“A… A…” She started, as if she had forgotten all words in the English language.

“A..?”

“A.. A snake!! I just saw a snake! Quite a big one! Seemed dangerous and all, oh god…” A snake in a bookstore, that simply won’t do.

“I would not think she has anything to do with it,” Aziraphale mumbled, side-eyeing the door towards the back of his bookshop, which was now ajar. It had been closed before. “I assure you, young lady. There are no snakes in my store, you are safe. How about a nice cup of chamomile tea, to calm the nerves, hm?”

The customer lowered her hand, finally taking her eyes off the empty spot between the shelves and nodding. Aziraphale luckily had a way to make customers at ease, but this had been a close call.

“Be right back, my kettle is in the back room. How about you take a seat? I am sure the collection of historical hymns might be good comfort for you.”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, making sure there were some novels next to the customer, before he made his way into the back room.

“A snake in my store, a snake… In my store!” he muttered, gesturing upwards as if it was too ridiculous to consider. He filled the kettle with water, turning it on as he took a moment to regard it. “It is one thing to want to buy some of my historical books, it is _another_ to interrupt Tchaikovsky.” The kettle pinged loudly, announcing the water was ready. Aziraphale fetched a teabag, making sure it was a lovely brew.

He then turned around, holding up his hand in request.

Crowley placed the mug in his hand, offering him a smile that Aziraphale had only seen on the faces of children who had just nicked their first piece of candy from a corner store. “Oh angel, I was simply giving the best example of a biblical monster to the lady, see it as a wish granted.”

Aziraphale gave Crowley a warning look, but continued with pouring the tea. The demon was leaning over the counter to catch his gaze again, but Aziraphale did not give him the satisfaction of looking back, simply muttering some complaints to himself instead.

“Crowley, dear, you know you are always welcome here, but this is the third time this has happened, and I’m almost out of chamomile tea—” Aziraphale had finally turned to really look at Crowley again. Crowley was leaned over the kitchen counter, his arm propped up to lean his chin on a hand, intently looking at Aziraphale with a smug grin. “Oh I was just having a nap! I’ll fetch you some new tea.” It wasn’t about the tea, it also wasn’t about Crowley scaring the customers, sometimes it was just about the mischievous grin that followed it all.

Aziraphale hated to love it.

“What if I told you she was planning to buy your guide of medieval dragon arts through the ages?” That’d be lying.

“She wasn’t.”

“Oh? I didn’t know you could sense human desire as well.” Crowley stretched his leg behind him while keeping his upper body stationed on the countertop, the end of his shoes reaching the small trash bin’s pedal to open it up. Aziraphale made an appreciative sound, throwing the tea bag into the trash can and giving Crowley one more warning look.

“Stay here, no more napping in the front for today.”

“I was simply waiting for you to close up, _angel_.”

Aziraphale suppressed a shiver, wondering why his shop’s temperature had caused such a reaction.

He returned to the customer with a smile. She had seemed to have forgotten about the whole ordeal, firmly focused on the book of historical hymns in her hands. “Ah, ta,” She had muttered as he set down the cup in front of her. Aziraphale appreciated the sunny smile that followed, which he returned.

“By the way, how much does this book cost?”

Aziraphale _almost_ cursed in his head, a sacrilegious action on its own to even simply consider doing so. His smile was gone. “Oh, let me just look that up real quick…”

Aziraphale rushed into the back of the shop without the intention to look up any price for his priceless books. His eyes simply scanned for Crowley, who was pretending to sit proper on the desk chair, sipping a cup that didn’t even seem to have anything in it. He even had his pinky finger up in mockery.

“Ah angel, back already?”

“Dearest, would you mind doing me a quick favour?”

Crowley seemed to choke on his imaginary tea, quickly putting the cup down and standing up in excitement.

“What do you need?”

“She wants to buy a book.”

“Oh~” Another shiver, they were getting harder to suppress. Crowley rubbed his hands together, his teeth seemingly growing sharper by the second. “On it.”

The Tchaikovsky was interrupted once more, but the perpetrator was gone before the tea cup found its way to shatter on the floor. Most other visitors of the bookshop had gone and left already. A pity, because they would have witnessed the truly amazing trick of a snake catching a teacup.

The small plate turned to CLOSED, the shop closed up with the snap of a finger, and Aziraphale made his way to the red-tinted snake that was calmly regarding him. The tip of its tail was offering out the tea cup for him to take. “Now now, maybe this bookshop needs a pet.” A hiss. Crowley didn’t like the, excuse his French, pet name.

Aziraphale took the cup, then offered out an arm. There was a brief moment of hesitation from Crowley, but another shake of his hand and it was gone. He slowly snaked his way around Aziraphale’s arm, resting his head onto his shoulder to be carried wherever.

“Now, how about you choose a movie tonight? I rather liked the one with the box of chocolates you suggested last time…”

* * *

And thus, weekly meetings ensued. Aziraphale often came back to his bookshop from lunch or dinner to find the Serpent of Eden in the only bit of sunlight that shined through the display windows. He never bothered to ask how Crowley had gotten in, but had offered a key after the third time, just as a reassurance that Crowley was welcome. He didn’t need to break in, he was invited, and was happily allowed to be his guard for bothersome customers who actually wanted to buy books.

And that was how life went on. They passed the time on earth as they always did. They performed their miracles, did their temptations, reported back to upstairs and downstairs about Warlock once in a while, and kept a close watch on their calendars.

For two immortal beings, the two and a half years passed as fast as you might imagine. They had, frankly, already planned some things on Warlock’s birthday (a lovely sushi dinner), which they unfortunately had to cancel. With all eyes on Warlock, frequent meetings would become suspicious.

A shame, both had gotten so terribly used to being in each other’s presence, and Crowley missed the sun that always found its way to shine right on his favourite spot in Aziraphale’s bookshop. His _only_ place to nap nowadays.

And then it was suddenly Monday again. The _last_ Monday if their plan had failed. Just like there would be a last Tuesday, a last Wednesday, and… well, one gets the idea. It was time to think about Armageddon again, both failed to be optimistic about it.

* * *

“No dog.”

“No dog…”

“Wrong boy.”

Crowley took a moment to repeat it. He wasn’t quite ready to really come to terms with what he was saying, however.

“Wrong boy.”

[✧](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ynzwjpP_8qA)

* * *

“We’re doomed.”

“Well then, welcome to the end times.”

Crowley took a big sip from his glass and then pressed his face down onto the surface of the table. Aziraphale caught himself tumbling into a similar mood of despair. Their life of the past 11 years hadn’t been all that bad. However, both of them had been wishing for something more after this. The victory of either side brought a loss with it that was unpleasant to imagine. But their imagination had intruded upon their minds before, and it never looked quite as pleasant.

Aziraphale was beginning to feel the weight of the situation more and more as he sat there in front of the enemy. Because Crowley was, if they didn’t find a way to stop Armageddon, the direct enemy. Considering Aziraphale’s rank, he probably would never come across him during the imminent war. He didn’t know if that was a better or a worse thought.

He could have known that their little setup would never truly have worked out. Even if they had picked the right boy, and had stopped him from naming the hellhound, heaven and hell wanted to fight. Humans were excellent examples that if there was a will, there _would_ be a way.

It was time to pick sides, and as Aziraphale stared at the demon muttering to himself in front of him, he realized he had picked a side with infinitesimal chances of survival the moment he had decided to go through with this plan.

Something in him was cracking, there were mere days left, and he really only had two ways of surviving Armageddon:

  1. They found the true Antichrist and stopped the events that were following up to the Great War like a Rube Goldberg machine.
  2. He decided to pick the side he was supposed to be on, the one he was created to be on.

[✧](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8EzroUQ-CC8)

The latter was a safe choice, and frankly, he was—

“Angel, just think of all the humans, all the creatures on this planet, it’s Mesopotamia all over again, but without the ark…” Crowley muttered against the surface of the table, muffled and all, but still easily understandable.

Something stirred, Aziraphale pushed his own glass further away from himself, for he was beginning to feel a little sick. Betrayal really was such an easy step to take, it always had been. He was simply shocked how quickly and selfishly he was considering it.

They had another few days, and they could perform miracles. What was another few days if not a chance to have a plan B?

Aziraphale reached forward, nudging Crowley’s hand gently to catch his attention. Crowley looked up, eyes a bright and full yellow out of stress, something the angel hadn’t seen for a while.

“Now now, it’s still a few days away… How about we try again?”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The angel honest-to-god cursed in his mind, but she forgave him right away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, open ✧ in new tab for a fitting song!

How far away could the Antichrist be? Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves constantly asking themselves this as the seconds and minutes ticked by. Their plan was to go back to the source. It should be easy, considering Crowley _was_ the source.

“Well, I didn’t technically stay for tea...” Crowley pushed his shades further in front of his eyes.

Aziraphale could only imagine Crowley leaving the literal Antichrist in front of the door of the chattering nuns. The idea disturbed him, which was odd considering it was the literal Antichrist they were talking about. But being near Warlock had softened them both.

“It is possibly the most important job you could have gotten as a demon. What were you in such a rush for?”

“Wuh-Well...” Crowley made his usual attempt at making Aziraphale drop the topic. It did not work, not this time, just because Aziraphale really desired honesty. A bit unbalanced, considering the events that would unfold eventually.

“I kind of... uhh... calledyouaboutArmageddon...”

“Ah.”

The angel looked away, offering Crowley a small moment to recover from telling the truth. Must be hard on him, being virtuous like that.

Tic toc, tic toc, tic toc...

And time went on, and here Aziraphale was, ignoring the itch he wouldn’t dare to scratch

* * *

The outdoor and below part of Tadfield manor was impressively busy. However, in a stroke of luck, Aziraphale had found the exact spot in the manor that was unoccupied, making for an excellent venue for his honest mistake. The sound of machine guns managed to get through the thick walls and double-sided windows, but that was all.

And he had just made the impressive mistake of calling Crowley _nice_.

The movement was quick, seemingly rehearsed, and surprisingly controlled. Aziraphale hadn’t often been pushed against walls, mind you, but 6000 years was a long time to gather life experiences. The chance of it happening to you increased just about every 100 years.

Frankly, this time, he didn’t care as much as Crowley pressed him further into the wall, a sharp scowl on his face.

Well then.

The sound of gunshots vanished on the background. Aziraphale was sure he wasn’t used to hearing his corporeal form’s heartbeat quite as loud as he was hearing it now.

11 years ago, within the first mark of true urgency, Aziraphale had invited himself and Crowley to the Ritz. It had been a fairly simple statement back then. Now, with the final mark of urgency, as the world’s demise was only a matter of days away, Aziraphale had been entangled in a dance without melodic cues. He wondered, ever since the first moment he had touched Crowley’s hand as he had a breakdown at his bookshop, who would take the lead.

Crowley seemed to have just taken the step.

Right right yeah yeah yeah, lovely, nice is a four-letter word, it definitely is, and so is love.

He wondered why Crowley had never minded his other names, but maybe it had finally been an excellent excuse to get a little closer. Just as he had once done by inviting the angel under the pretense that it was all work, no play.

Aziraphale wasn’t about to judge. Especially not as the familiar embers dug into the back of his neck. Maybe it had simply been his jacket digging into his skin, but he was used to the sensation by now, and was longing for a dictionary to find a word for it. Well, there was one, he simply refused to say it, or even _think_ it.

Not yet, but maybe soon.

How he was such a walking conundrum was even a mystery to god.

Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s jacket for a moment, simply seeing if he could close the distance between them further. It was merely a second of a glance down towards Crowley’s lips. Just one movement, it wouldn’t be too difficult…

An unfamiliar voice broke their bubble. Aziraphale was about to snap his fingers to see whether his miracle would make the source of the voice disappear, but…

Crowley already turned his face around, the moment had passed.

The angel honest-to-god cursed in his mind, but she forgave him right away.

There was a small sliver of hope that Crowley might take over this miracle and rid of the intruder himself, but Aziraphale was soon forced to turn to the woman in the hallway as well. It had taken him a moment to calm his nerves, he had to admit.

Alright, alright, if this was their solution to them having to find the Antichrist, he could live with not kissing Crowley just a little longer.

However, Aziraphale still caught himself reluctantly fixing up his suit, chiding Crowley for freezing the lady before she could run off.

“You didn’t have to do that..."

* * *

The internal struggle within Aziraphale was bigger than whatever war might follow Armageddon. It crept into every single breath of air he took, made his words two-faced in a way that would even make Judas sniff in disgust. There was no excuse for the bad decisions he made. It started with him hiding Agnes Nutter’s book from Crowley and escalated the moment his thoughts went to it being a solution for stopping the war.

There was no redemption for turning his back to Crowley in a crisis, and yet, there was something so strongly yearning for survival. _What if, what if…_

What if the angels would think it was the solution they needed? What if they too had longed for an excuse to call off the fight? Blood would be spilled in the Great War, there would be losses on both sides in a way that even the winner would end up feeling like they had lost. Aziraphale had seen human wars, had lived in them. Why it was desired was, in his own head, the biggest evidence that angels weren’t all that different from the humans that lived below.

At least humans had the moral compass to consider it wrong sometimes.

They did not listen. They threatened, and hurt, and laughed at him. Aziraphale had spent 8 years at the Dowling mansion. 8 years of his limited time left on earth, and it had simply been a place-filler, it seemed.

So much wasted time, so much tip-toeing around the ones above, and all it had done was bring in a single conclusion.

_He didn’t belong here_. He didn’t belong in the neat row of angels readying themselves for battle. He did not belong between a group that told him what he should or shouldn’t do. There wasn’t a quota for how many miracles an angel could do, for heaven’s sake! There was no way an angel, virtuous and loving, would build and love and give, only to break it all down in the end!

Aziraphale halted himself as he stood there in front of the floating globe of planet earth. If his corporeal form had still been here, it might have taken the opportunity to shed a tear.

_What a human thing to do, being optimistic._

There was just the tiniest bit of sunlight in London in the middle of the storm. It came and went, and brought with it the smallest miracle.

Aziraphale did not know how moving around went without a corporeal form on earth. He had never done so before. He simply tried closing his eyes (an odd sensation, considering he technically did not have eyelids) and thought strongly about where he wanted to be.

He wanted to be with the one chance he had to save the world. He wanted to be with the promise of eternity.

That was easy then, he wanted to be wherever Crowley might be.

* * *

Life was cruel, for there was no rest within the limited time they had for stopping the apocalypse, and once there was a moment of the apocalypse being stopped, there was even less rest.

Because Satan was coming, and that often did not mean good stuff, unless you were a Satanist and hadn’t found out that he was a terrible father, and therefore extending to being a terrible boss. Maybe, _maybe_ you would be happy to see him.

Not that God was any better, but she didn’t pay you, and she also was technically the boss of all of reality, you never quite knew if you were on her good side or her bad side. Quite honestly, Aziraphale had wondered how much of a good side there actually was. Moral goodness seemed such a human concept. Adam seemed to have found that morality, and had made it his own. Aziraphale could feel it within each passing breath of his new corporeal form. A form Adam had given him. It was a kindness that even heaven, his own side, would not have given him so easily.

But Adam had.

The first moment of rest was in the desert that Crowley had transported them to. Aziraphale, who had not realized he had been holding his breath a little too long, finally took a deep breath. His empty threat towards Crowley had already been worth it simply for this moment.

Because it had been an empty threat. The only way that Aziraphale would never have talked to Crowley again was if Satan had simply smit-smited-smote(?) them all. Yes, then he’d probably never talk to the demon (or anyone, for that matter) ever again.

Adam was between them. Young, powerful Adam, the Antichrist with perfectly human morals. Aziraphale liked him, and told him in the best pep talk he could manage. Secretly, he was kind of nervous, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Crowley was there to finish the pep talk anyway. They made quite a good team.

The borders of this reality were thinning out. Aziraphale could feel how their past location was calling them back, could feel the rumbling beneath the soles of his shoes.

Pity, he had liked this location. Even in the emptiness, something seemed so _familiar_ about this place.

He held Adam’s hand, wielding his flaming sword as if the 6000 years of no practice wouldn’t matter. They had everything to win and nothing to lose, and he was willing to give it his all.

Crowley twirled the tire iron. Time came back to them slowly at first. It was enough for a final thought.

Aziraphale knew why the location had seemed so familiar. It reminded him of Eden. He had seen the first lightning bolt here, had felt the first drops of rain wet his wings.

He had met Crowley here.

[✧](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KtlgYxa6BMU)

His head turned to sneak a look at Crowley. However, he caught Crowley doing the exact same.

They locked eyes. Eternity was knocking on their door.

_Would fate allow them to open it?_


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He didn’t particularly like the idea that the fate of the world was currently dependent on the willpower of an 11-year-old._

The calm and serene made place for earth-shattering chaos. Aziraphale wondered why it had all been the task of an 11-year old to bring destruction, considering this was much more scary.

Crowley did not wonder, nor did he really phrase anything, for his thoughts were to be translated to written text as follows:

‘OHHHHH NOOOOOOOOOO.’

The earth shattered besides them; the monster of the depth crawled above. The heat of its home radiated off him like an unpleasant look into a lit fireplace. It was an unpleasant sensation for Crowley, one that reminded him much of his time in Aziraphale’s bookshop. When it had been on fire, of course.

Nothing like seeing the bad ol’ employer again, not that he often saw him in the confined hallways of hell, or ever really. Crowley did not know whether he should cower in fear, beg for forgiveness, or run far away.

Instead, he started with simply staying on his feet, eyes directed towards the fire that was his master, his horns a twisted crown.

He didn’t particularly like the idea that the fate of the world was currently dependent on the willpower of an 11-year-old.

“If I’m in trouble with my dad—” The earth protested to the intrusion, rumbling and shivering as a flu might do to viruses. Crowley struggled to stay upright, every part of his willpower having to be used to resist landing firmly on his knees—

A warm hand encircled his own, fingers confidently tangling with his in a firm grip that brought stability both physically and mentally.

_A repayment for _Hamlet_, it seemed._

Crowley dared just the briefest glance to Aziraphale. His other hand was still wielding the flaming sword he had once given away back in Eden. His eyes had not been leaving Satan’s form, his pale blue eyes carrying a flame much more fiery than anything else at the Tadfield airbase. It was a blue flame, much more dangerous.

The angel seemed to have noticed the short glance. He squeezed Crowley’s hand firmly, and it brought more hope. If this was the end, they had reached it together. Maybe their little eternity had been just this one second, how long would Crowley have been able to drag it out?

Adam fought valiantly, stood in front of the embodiment of all evil in the steadiest stance, and _won_. His words enough to sway reality, and it listened intently.

Satan was replaced with a much more realistic threat for an 11-year-old: an actual angry dad, who knew that grounding a child was much more scary to him than whatever torturous punishment they had in hell. The humans that had been at their side were gone from around them. Aziraphale hoped Adam had been concentrated enough to bring them somewhere safe.

“That’s not really his father…” Aziraphale regarded the chiding of Adam Young with a casualness that did not suggest they had just come face to face with the literal _Devil_.

“It is, it is now and it always was…” Crowley thought out loud in response.

“He did it!"

It had almost seemed impossible. Something within him still expected the entire world to implode, but he could sense no fires around London, and no Kraken ready to eat whatever came in its path. Crowley thought he might implode as well, his heart was beating 90 miles an hour, and he was not making it stop any time soon with its pure joy.

They watched as the Antichrist was directed into the back seat of the small car. Adam Young’s father regarded them both with an intense stare, one that might have killed if he had had the same powers as his son.

“Now now, would you rather have found him with two soldiers at his side, Mr. Young?” Crowley said with a raise of his eyebrow. “You’re glad your son did not get in more trouble, and you as well! This is a secure area!” Crowley was sure to make his voice go a little high in exasperation, which worked perfectly. It made Mr. Young completely ignore the fact that the man telling him was clearly not dressed like a soldier. He was also _definitely_ not being very soldier-like, for more reasons than one. Still, Adam was about to be grounded, and he really had experienced enough trouble for one day.

“Not to worry, we’re leaving,” Mr. Young said, and got into the car, sparing one more glance towards the two beings, the only ones still standing at the Tadfield airbase.

The sun set on another imperfect day on earth. One that would be followed by many. The lilac of the sky mixed with peach and orange into a beautiful mix of colours. Something heaven and hell would always miss.

Crowley looked at the sky with wonder, the silence after the storm much welcomed. Aziraphale had joined in without a word, but was the first to break the silence as it actually began to get dark. “I could use a drink,” he started, as he gently pulled Crowley’s arm towards him to get his attention. It did that and more.

_It made Crowley realize something, you see?_

They had never let go of each other’s hands. Crowley stared at it with a bit of awe. Had he just really acted all tough to Mr. Young while holding Aziraphale’s hand? The _biggest_ bluff, if he had to say so himself. Aziraphale seemed to have gotten conscious of it as well, for he rubbed his thumb over Crowley’s hand in an anxious circle. “h-Well... You didn’t let go, and I much like holding it, would you mind if we keep doing so?”

“Angel,”

Crowley turned to Aziraphale with new courage, with new hope. He was giddy, buzzing with joy in every way he could. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

“Just say yes or no, would you?”

“No, I do not mind, not ever.”

“Right. Well, thank you.” Another squeeze of his hand, Crowley regarded it curiously. Armageddon was over, why did the angel still seem so nervous?

* * *

They didn’t let go as they strolled to the nearest shop that was still open. They strolled through Tadfield in the dark, and talked about everything and nothing. Aziraphale motioned with his hand, swinging both their arms in excitement as he talked giddily about the look on Gabriel’s face. Just as exasperated, just as annoyed, as Beelzebub.

“I’m glad to see both our bosses have the same look on their faces, regardless of what side they are on!” Aziraphale managed a chuckle, but quickly stopped himself as he realized the weight his words had carried.

They only let go the moment two hands were required to open the bottle of wine. It was a cheap 3 pound red wine, but both believed wholeheartedly that it was a good one, and so it was.

The bottle went from hand to hand as they sat there on the small bench at the bus stop. Crowley had bitterly come to the conclusion they had to take the bus now, a devilish act in itself they were, buses once it was dark. You never quite caught the one you were aiming for. This time, however, he did not mind waiting for the bus. He took a swig from the wine, mumbling casually about the Armageddon they had just successfully stopped. (Yeah what? They had helped! Who knows what could have happened without them giving the final pep talk to Adam!)

Oh, while also firmly believing the next bus would take them to London.

Aziraphale was fumbling with something in his hands. Crowley glanced at it, curious what would be so important. What could be more important than their wine?

“What’s that?”

The last prophecy of Agnes Nutter, that was what it was. It was a final bleak reminder that they weren’t quite done. All the humans were, however. Adam was probably already dreaming about pirates, or aliens, or policemen! Oh, Warlock had loved policemen, much to Crowley’s horror.

They handed over the deliveries to the postman, who had had quite the day, like they all had. They regarded the man casually. Crowley couldn’t help but suppress a laugh as Aziraphale signed the paper confirming the return of the items. It was a great plan, a grande plan, but they both had to face the fact that their place in this story was small, uncredited, and only truly important for their superiors to put the blame on.

As insignificant as they were, it didn’t quite matter. The world was still turning, and it would keep turning for a while if it was within their control.

Not that it was.

Reality would sink in eventually. For Aziraphale, the ‘good old times’ were his bookshop, his food, and his frequent meetings with Crowley.

“It burned down… Remember...?” Crowley stated rather carefully, obviously just as understanding of the value it had held. His own piece of heaven on earth, it had gone up in flames. Aziraphale was glad he had not been around to witness it.

The bookshop had burned down, first just a victim of the Armageddon, the end of the world, now only a victim of circumstance, of them saving the world.

They had averted the war, but Aziraphale had still become a victim.

“You can stay at my place.” Crowley dared it. Aziraphale simply swallowed, barely registering the words at first.

“If you’d like.”

It was a conflict within. Everything to lose, nothing to lose, everything to lose once again, and somewhere in it, the angel had become an outlaw. A word he had never really expected to be used to describe him and the way he held himself.

Out of old habits, Aziraphale decided to see where they were standing, maybe for the last time.

“I don’t think my side would like that.” A nudge, a careful answer. It was always a _maybe_. This time, the maybe was not an ‘I can’t say yes,’ it was simply a ‘convince me, make me say yes.’

“You don’t have a side anymore. Neither of us do, we’re on our own side.”

_Our own side._

Then the demon let it simmer, holding up his hand to make the bus towards Oxford stop in front of them. They both wished its route into existence with much accuracy, and then got in. It would bring them to the city within the hour, another step in an endless number of steps on a road without a spoken destination.

The both of them stepped into the bus cautiously. Crowley had snuck in the red wine bottle, and had paused a bit in the front of the bus. It wasn’t that there weren’t seats available, it was simply that there was something discomforting about the idea that there were no guidelines they had to follow. It had often been easy, nudging against a border line of what would be allowed and most likely not. A big could-be was sitting in the same bus. What was an angel supposed to do? Pick a different bus if Crowley was in it? What if the only available spot was one _in front _of the demon?

It was probably a bit too much if the only free spot was next to a demon. No, that simply wouldn’t do. Not that anyone ever had time to really check. _But what if?_

Now with them being at their own sides, it was simply a question of their own judgement.

Alright, easy!

Crowley took a hold of Aziraphale’s hand and pulled further into the bus before the angel could object. He sat down, somewhere in the middle, that definitely did not matter. What did matter was the seat next to him, which he pulled Aziraphale into. It was odd, not having to lean over the seat in front of him to continue his conversation. However, he could handle a bit of nouveau every once in a while. He glanced at Aziraphale, who had not said anything yet since the announcement that they were on their own side.

“Angel,”

“Hm...”

“Is this okay? Too fast?” He nodded at their joined hands. He knew that Aziraphale had asked to keep holding onto it himself, but he was ever so changeable. He wanted to make it work, now more than ever.

“No, not too fast.”

“It’s not the hand holding that I’m nervous about,” Aziraphale continued, and it made sense, they had done it plenty of times. It was the implications that were so different now though.

“It’s the fact that both sides are still here, waiting for a scapegoat, Crowley.” It did make sense. A third side, their own side, was easy to bring into this as a cause of all the failures. They were, with their joined hands, a symbol of the failure of the apocalypse. Bit funny, considering how little they had actually done. The pep talk was nice though, right?

But Crowley wasn’t impressed.

“You think we’re the goat! You, heh, you want to know what that means in human slang? We’re the Greatest—”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said it urgently, “This isn’t a joke. We might as well—” He was already gesturing frantically, something he often only did when he was about to get wound up about something. Crowley snatched the second hand out of the air as well, which immediately seemed to halt that train of thought. He joined them, a pair of hands held in his own. “Angel. It’s okay.”

They didn’t seem to ever live in eternity. Their deserved eternity was hard work, and still required a bit more work, if they had to believe the prophecy. However, tonight they deserved at least _something_ of a celebration. It had been years of hard work, and now they only needed to protect their own side. It shouldn’t be the biggest task, right?

“We’ll get through this. I mean, have you ever seen heaven and hell work together efficiently?” Crowley caught a change in the tenseness in Aziraphale’s hands. “The answer is no. We will have tonight, and maybe tomorrow, but let’s not get greedy.”

Gently, Aziraphale’s hands twisted to entwine his fingers with Crowley’s. It was enough.

“I suppose it is just another small eternity for us, then.”

“You know, I can live with that.”

A beat of silence as the bus came to a halt for a stop. They witnessed someone leave, then the bus drove once more.

“I’d like to take you up on that offer,” Aziraphale continued. “I’ll stay at your place.”

“Right, yes.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How could he return love when he was endlessly out of practice?

They were the last ones to leave the bus. Mostly because no one smart stepped into the bus after having passed Oxford. The bus driver looked exhausted, but weren’t they all?

“Thank you, have a lovely night!” Aziraphale said, then pulled Crowley outside. The bus had stopped right in front of the demon’s apartment, a place he had rarely seen. Maybe twice in all the years of human existence.

Crowley had had about fifteen panic attacks since the moment Aziraphale had accepted the invitation to his apartment. The demon had gotten so used to hearing no’s that a yes was a new thing, something he hadn’t been prepared for. Eight of the panicked moments were about his plants, the other 7 were mostly about whatever he could expect from a night shared in his apartment with Aziraphale. There was something ahead. No, Crowley wasn’t talking about both angels and demons waiting for their chance to punish them. No, he wasn’t talking about the dawn of a new day, he was truly sensing something, a buzz between them, not stilled until Crowley flipped the proverbial page of the novel. In this case, said proverbial page was the door of his apartment. But he’d let Aziraphale write the words for once.

“Right, well… All micasasucasa etcetera etcetera…” The demon rambled as he opened the door to his apartment. It seemed, to an angel used to clutter and stuffiness in its living page, like a cold and sterile place. But just like Aziraphale’s place was a stark contrast to heaven, so was Crowley’s. It was cold and sterile, minimalistic, not cluttered or grimy like hell was.

Crowley’s answering machine, now empty after the visit of an infernal prisoner, created an eerie white noise within the space, which did not help calm either of their nerves down. Aziraphale looked around, flicking his fingers once before Crowley could even bother. The lights turned on, casting a warm glow they had never previously brought. It was angelic work, that was certain.

Aziraphale looked around just briefly, then turned to Crowley. “Mind if I look around?”

“No, no! Go ahead.”

A pause. Crowley looked as Aziraphale took two steps, paused, then turned around again, clearing his throat. Was he missing something?

“Join me?”

Oh, right.

* * *

Walking into Crowley’s apartment was like climbing a treacherous path, only to look back at how much you’ve been through at the end of it. Aziraphale specifically thought back to Tadfield Airbase.

The moment their eyes locked, just before time had come back to them.

Something in him had snapped in that moment, the realization hitting him that he would have done things so much differently if he had known this was where it would have ended. If that had been the moment they lost the battle, Aziraphale had wished he would have accepted Crowley’s proposal earlier. They could have enjoyed it, just for a while, but there would have been no regrets as the earth split open below them. Within a finite eternity (what an extraordinary conundrum), even just an answer of ‘together till the end’ would have been enough.

And now they found themselves in another moment of quiet, just before a new end, and the angel had another opportunity to answer it.

And another moment to run far, far away from it, like he had done before.

It wasn’t like it would make such a big difference. In terms of Aziraphale’s perspective on ‘together,’ they _had_ been together.

Aziraphale would imagine it was as ‘together’ as they could have been. They went out for lunch, enjoyed each other’s company, and were at each other’s beck and call. Aziraphale couldn’t imagine a good opera without Crowley, and knew that he’d always be invited to a good comedy if it was spread around against the buses of London.

But stating it had always been out of the question. How cowardly.

Aziraphale caught himself being awfully quiet as he let this inner turmoil turn and twist into a paste. They walked through the long hallway of Crowley’s apartment. Crowley pointed out the artworks that barely had colours. They reminded Aziraphale of artworks one might find in a business journal, or an office waiting room of a company that no one knew what they actually generated profit from.

But, there was something else. Aziraphale caught himself walking to it with a faster pace the closer they got to the point of interest. It was subconscious, a longing for something _familiar_, something that reflected something within himself, a form of love, brightness, _blessings_.

What he found was a form of love… in its own way, he supposed. Aziraphale regarded the foliage of plants, bright and green, perfectly cultivated in a space that reminded him just slightly of Eden. “Oh... they’re _wonderful_.” Aziraphale clasped a hand over his mouth, reaching the other one out to gently feel the leaves of one of the bigger plants. He thought he saw it briefly lean into the touch, but it must have been his own exhaustion that made him imagine it.

“They’re alright.” Crowley had been giving the plants a glowering stare, both his hands in his pockets. This was possibly d-day for them, the day they truly had to succeed so Crowley could boast a little.

“Oh Crowley. Now I wish I had come to your apartment earlier!”

“Heh, your bookshop is cozier.”

“It might be. But this place is so, so... _you_?”

A silence fell, Crowley took that in for a second.

“A compliment?”

“Yes, a compliment,” he assured.

Crowley still looked a little nervous. It reminded Aziraphale of the way a person might look as they start a conversation at exactly the same time as another person. Like he had interrupted and had been interrupted by someone else at the same time.

Time to face the next hill, but in the right way this time.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale moved himself into the space of plants, letting them cocoon him like wings might have done instead. They moved, miraculously, to give him space. Crowley would say it almost reminded him of a renaissance painting, even more so when the angel held out his hands for Crowley to take, inviting him to join him in the space. (The work in question here is Primavera by Botticelli.)

And so, Crowley took the invitation, stepping into the space, ignoring the way the plants leaned into their space again, much like a pair of listening ears.

“Forgive me, would you?”

“Aziraphal— Armegeddon is over, stress makes you do the wildest things, hell, I walked into the burning bookshop to come fetch you. Don’t even mention it, will you?”

“No, that’s not what I—” Aziraphale halted, giving Crowley a confused look. “You did _what_?…! —Lord almighty, I might discorporate out of stress one day, my dear. However, I wasn’t referring to that, I-…”

Aziraphale trailed off, taking both of Crowley’s hands in his own, looking up at him from where he had been focused on their hands, joined together.

“Forgive me, for not accepting your proposal sooner.”

Well, there it was.

“I have realized far too late that I have wasted so many years worrying. So many years thinking it might be redemption I was seeking, so many years thinking that it was a promise I couldn’t make in uncertainty, but it is a promise I _should_ make in an uncertain time, is it not?”

Crowley took three seconds to simply let out a strangled sound, strangely affirmative.

“If life on earth has taught me anything, it is that there’s always an end. Every second, something is ending. Whether it is a human life, a movie, or the last note of a favourite song, this world is _finite_, and that is _okay_, isn’t that the charm of it?” Aziraphale shook his head, just slightly chuckling to himself. “And here I kept thinking, what _if_? What if we don’t get to do this? What if it all ends in eleven years? What if it ends in two? What if I only get a single day—”

He was fervently fumbling with Crowley’s hands, had averted his eyes downwards again; infinite rambling about finite settings, how peculiar.

Aziraphale took one of his hands off Crowley’s, placing it on the demon’s chest instead, right where Crowley’s heart may have been. Maybe there was one, he never had bothered to discorporate himself to find out, a steady but quick beating suggested there was _something_. A comforting idea. A demon with a heart, but that wasn’t new to him, he had known for so long.

Pale blue met— Aziraphale clicked his tongue, that simply wouldn’t do. He reached up, taking Crowley’s sunglasses off, putting them down on one of the many pots. * [✧ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E11B899_tCw)

Pale blue eyes met searingly bright yellow. Aziraphale had never seen them quite as bright and alert. “It would have been our eternity. Even if it’s a single day, it’s our eternity until it is not. I would like to accept, if the offer is still up.”

“Acc-yeahuhhhh.... accept? Jusssssssst... just so we’re on the same line, huh? What do you accept?”

“Eternity together.”

* * *

Crowley had _literally_ been to hell and back, had looked the Devil in the eyes, and that was all not as big of a hill to get over as trying to remain eloquent as Aziraphale accepted his proposal. Here, in his apartment, beneath the foliage of grand and green, of light and shine. After so many years, after all they’ve been through, after thinking he had _lost_— Here the angel was, the warm light of Crowley’s apartment casting a familiar glow over them. Now for them both, it was.

Crowley was certain his heart was bursting beneath Azirphale’s touch.

There were no words to really express it, that eerie sensation of love and longing and _glee_. Emotions he had had for ages, but only now had a place for. They were for Aziraphale, for the earth they stood on, and every second of time shared.

Was one taught to love? Was one born into the idea of love? Did emotions form, have words, bring meaning into life if they were never stated? Did _She_ create this? Crowley did not know, all he knew was that he had seen love surrounding him during his life on earth, and the way to express it…

Aziraphale had his lips formed around the start of a new sentence, but even before the first sound came out, Crowley _dared_ it. A kiss, brief, barely a brush, like the leaves of plants brushing against skin. It was like time stopped, and maybe it had, Crowley was in a _state_, a state he wasn’t aware of. He could have made the entire apartment float out of its foundation with his miracles by then, and he’d never have noticed.

Aziraphale looked at him wide-eyed. Apparently not what he had expected. Crowley wondered if this had still been too fast.

“Crowley…” A whisper, Crowley witnessed as Aziraphale touched his own lips briefly, as if he couldn’t quite believe that had just happened.

Wait, was that regret he felt? Shit, SHIT OKAY.

“Y-You weren’t done talking, just act like I—wow, okay, okay, uuuuuuhhhhh.”

A perfect moment, a perfect setting, and Crowley had, in all the years he could have been preparing for this moment, still found a way to be completely ill-prepared. He wondered if he could still let the ground swallow him up.

“Crowley, should I take that as a yes? The offer is still up?” There was a tinge of something dripping off the words. Crowley was familiar with it, but stress made his mind seem foggy enough. Languages and words were not the oldest ways of communication, and Crowley could happily say he was beginning to become a little old-fashioned.

A hand found its way to Crowley’s cheek, a step further. The touch was unfamiliar, he couldn’t remember if anyone had ever touched him quite that gently.

One would say that there was nothing as soft as the way Aziraphale touched his face at that moment. His fingertips were like feathers, tracing whatever line he could find, smoothing whatever nerve and stress had found itself expressing on Crowley’s face.

It made Crowley lock eyes with Aziraphale once again. It was infinitely tougher now to do so, but Crowley was rewarded for his bravery. He could finally place the emotions that had dripped from the angel’s words, for he read them in his eyes. More pieces of a puzzle found their place, more mysteries in their ‘together’ were solved and explained. This was not the first time Aziraphale had offered him this look. Crowley could pinpoint it through centuries. The moment Crowley ordered crêpes in French, made it rain just so he could privately talk to the angel at the Dowling mansion, whenever he cheekily scared one of Aziraphale’s customers away. He had never dared to give it a title, but ‘never’ was as cowardly as seeing ‘infinite’ as an impossible time to schedule in the planning of your existence. If this day was their infinite, then this moment was also the moment he could title it.

He decided to describe it as _love_.

What an odd sensation, being loved. The idea was so simple, something that one yearns for even without knowing. To be seen, to be wanted, to be of value to someone around you. Not because you need to, but because you want to give the same, share a feeling. [✧](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q1s6DFBYBZA)

Crowley had had only the smallest idea what it was like to be loved. All of them were based on age-old memories. He remembered it as a warmth, a confidence in the acts he did, the soft sigh of morning as the sun came up. Aziraphale’s love wasn’t like that at all, but it did not matter; expectations were there to be broken, and something told the demon he had always been underestimating what love could be.

Aziraphale knew what love was in its brightest form, was still graced with that light in his eyes, the silver in his wings. How could Crowley equate to the love of an angel? The love of their deity, who had shaped him, and had tormented those who were wicked enough not to deserve it.

Demons were often proud in their claim that they did not miss it. They did not miss passion, love, the enjoyment of existence. Crowley had stared at the posters of hell for ages wondering why the freedom away from the strict rules of heaven had left them bitter. They had grown in the shadows like reptiles without eyes... those ones with too many X’s and l’s. Those did not miss light, had learned to live without it.

But those lizards had generations enough to delete the memory of blinks and light, and Crowley still remembered his fall like it had been yesterday.

How could he return love when he was endlessly out of practice?

“Yes. The offer is up, will remain up, stay up, and be available for as long as I can speak, to be honest, right. Until you reject it, of course.”

“Well, like I said, I hereby accept your offer.”

“Heh. Right, I hope I’ll be worth it.”

There was a beat of silence in which Aziraphale sighed.

“My dearest...” Aziraphale breathed, slowly reaching out to cup Crowley’s cheeks with both hands now. Crowley, who did not know where to really leave his hands, awkwardly held onto Aziraphale’s arms, as if it was the only thing grounding him.

“It has never been the question if you were worth it. It has always been the question if I was smart enough to truly see that worth.”

Crowley reached up, covering one of Aziraphale’s hands with his own and leaning into it by tilting his head. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to calm down.

“Well, you read a lot of books, you’re smart, took you long enough.”

“Is that a bit of cheek I sense?”

“Hmn… You know it best.”

Crowley felt how Aziraphale was tilting up his head again. He refused to cooperate for just a moment, because he wasn’t entirely willing to stop being stubborn. Aziraphale had grown to love it, so he must have been okay with it at that time as well.

There was a clearing of a throat, a brief shaking of Aziraphale’s hand against Crowley’s cheek, and then, about as careful as any touch had been, a meeting of lips. A kiss, a human expression of love, so familiar yet so new. It took Crowley a moment to truly register it, but then there he was, hands reaching for new places to hold onto, for Aziraphale’s arms simply wouldn’t do. It would impede the task to get closer, all those limbs between them.

Look, angels did not kiss, they blessed and cradled and shielded those they loved from harm. They watched from a distance, taught you appreciation and self-love, clasped their hands over the place of their makeshift hearts made of light and god-given beliefs as you struggled, and cried with you when it all became too much.

But they did not kiss, they did not see value in quite such frivolous things, for their lips were formed for wisdom and music, and never for an exchange expected from a being that never was as capable to find the words needed. These all proved that angels would not enjoy the idea of a kiss, or the practice of it, for that matter. Aziraphale and Crowley would always be stubborn, it seemed, for they both found great joy in it.

The kiss only lasted a few seconds. Another comparison could be made how even a few seconds could be their infinite, one gets the proverbial gist. They both wouldn’t remember who was the first to pull away.

There is an embodiment for war, there is an embodiment for death, and all those pesky negative horsemen found their ways to Armageddon. Crowley had to admit, he wondered if the embodiment of glee had found itself manifesting in his apartment, for there had never been something that had given him such happiness. Crowley felt his lips shape into a grin, so wide it might have seemed scary, unnatural even. It surely caught the angel’s attention, who turned a lovely shade of red.

“About that entire eternity aspect, though, wouldn’t it be lovely if it truly would be _eternity_? If we could see the stars around us come and go, witness generations of humans, and see all there is of this existence?” Aziraphale went back to holding Crowley’s hand again. A flash of visions came to mind, a thousand sunsets, a supernova taking place right in front of them, an endless amount of shared dinners. The soft ‘clink!’ of glasses were still ringing in Crowley’s ears as the visions left, as quick as they came. “Oh, _apologies_. I would stop doing that, there is simply so much to share, so much to want, it’s just—”

“There are things we have to do before.”

“Yes.”

A snap of the finger, and the small scrap of paper that had dropped from the witch’s book made its way to their attention again. Their little moment had passed. The plants surrounding them drooped, as if they had lost their interest in the performance in front of them.

How odd, somehow everything had changed, but the step to it had been so close to the surface that it had not felt like a step at all.

They were right back to scheming, and luckily, they had a guide.

* * *

Crowley had, besides the desk he usually sat at, quite a spacious living room. It offered just about anything to do what Crowley had clearly not done in his apartment for a while: living, that is. Still, it offered a spot for them to brainstorm. Aziraphale read the prophecy once again.

“_When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre. _Well, Ms. Nutter, you have me stumped.”

The couch, though large enough to offer seats to just about three people, was occupied by Aziraphale and Crowley. The latter was draped over its entirety, his legs settled upon the angel’s lap. Crowley was staring at the ceiling, wondering if it might offer him answers. It never did.

“Choofe your fafef,” Crowley repeated in mockery, raising both his hands in a confused motion. “I sure as hell think hiding is not going to work, this earth is small, they will find me in any form, it’s that… thingy, the—”

“Yes Crowley, the occult in you does _scream_ to any other occult or ethereal being, you are correct.”

“So hiding as another human might not work.”

“You’re right.”

“It is quite a silly prophecy though, it only seems to be directed at you.”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale offered out the paper as Crowley reached for it.

“Well… the entire ‘fire’ part. Fire doesn’t really hurt me that badly.”

“It’s symbolism, my dear. Playing with fire—”

Aziraphale interrupted himself with a sharp motion as he stood up. The motion, because of the part of Crowley that was still on his lap, caused the demon to gracelessly fall onto the tile floor.

“Ah _shit_. Angel, warn me—”

“That’s it! Crowley, you’re— well, your lack of knowledge solved it!” Aziraphale waited for Crowley to stand up again, then gave the demon a grin that kind of scared him. Aziraphale’s plans were fun, but were often just about as dysfunctional as his were.

“If heaven wanted to destroy me, they’d use hellfire, wouldn’t you say?”

“…Yes…?”

“And if they wanted to destroy you, they’d use…”

“Lots of insults!” teased Crowley, who was catching on. Aziraphale gave him a warning gaze.

“Oh, and holy water, of course.”

“Well, holy water doesn’t hurt me, and… hellfire must feel lovely to you. Do you reckon we should…”

“Oh my, _angel_.”

“Yes.”

“You’re—” “Yes…” “Seriously—” “Yes!”

“Oh that is _genius_, that might just work!”

* * *

With a plan laid out and hours to spare before the estimated moment both heaven and hell would get their proverbial shit together, the both of them found themselves in the eye of the storm. Crowley had walked in and out of the living room as Aziraphale inspected his limited book collection. Most of them were ancient, untouched but not really collecting dust. The most noteworthy part of Crowley’s apartment had been the lovely Da Vinci that just casually hung near the TV.

It was about the third time that Crowley walked in that it distracted Aziraphale, who glanced over to him. “Dear, you are making me awfully nervous, what is it?”

“Jusssss’ figuring some stuff out, that’s all. You want anything to drink?”

Seemed like _someone_ was trying to change the subject. “Ah, maybe a tea…”

“That simply wouldn’t fit, try again.” Crowley waved it off, already seemingly kicking himself in the shins for giving it away.

“Fit with what?”

A bell rang, making Aziraphale jump. It must have been the door of his apartment. He didn’t expect that vengeful heaven or hell would simply ring the doorbell, but regardless, he was still a bit on edge about it.

“That’s a doorbell, angel.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t know we were expecting company.”

“We weren’t, they’re not staying…” Crowley’s voice echoed as he walked off to answer the door. Aziraphale decided to stay right where he was, thank you very much.

And in Crowley came, with about three bags of contents that carried a lovely smell with it. If Aziraphale had to guess, this was their little ‘last supper’ before their next challenge. It was a kind gesture, that made him melt a little as he stepped to give Crowley a little space to put the bags down. “Look, angel, Hakkassan doesn’t really do takeaway, so you’re happy they owe me a favour.”

“Favours, never heard of a demon being owed favours, for that, one has to be nice, correct?”

“Or just mess someone’s day up, exactly the person the owner hates.”

A terrific point. Aziraphale gathered some plates out of nowhere, while Crowley got some glasses. “Not a smart idea to get drunk, but that doesn’t mean we should simply stop ourselves from enjoying life’s pleasures, wouldn’t you say?”

A bottle of red wine appeared from one of the plastic bags, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but get a little excited. A small celebration was allowed, Crowley was right about that.

“Life’s pleasures all seem so much more grande when shared.” The _with you _was clearly insinuated.

After a lovely dinner, a few glasses of red wine (too many, but who can help themselves), and some new courage, the night crept up on them.

Within the night, as stars scattered and found their ways to existence once more, an old record player never found an opportunity to have rest, as soft music coaxed the two immortal beings into a comfortable state of rest. They had both forgotten what it was like to rest, mostly because it had never been a necessity. They had been part of a machine of poison and antidote for far too long, so long that there had never been a point of existence between hurting and healing. Crowley could sleep for weeks, but had no time to do so, and would rather spend any available unthreatened hour completely conscious of this new existence. The hours had become more precious, for they were shared now.


	12. Chapter 12

“So, how are we going do this then?”

Crowley regarded the angel quietly, trying to think of the words that would describe how one might possess a body, swap around. He had not done it quite as often, but he had had his experiences of taking a different form and possessing human forms. This was a brief switch, but the timing had to be absolutely perfect.

First, though, he had to make sure the angel was completely relaxed. A rigid form would not pass easily, and stress might ruin the attempt. This had to go perfect first time around, or their courage would greatly deplete.

_Now, how to calm down an angel?_

Crowley frowned a little, then reached out his hand with the palm up, offering it out to Aziraphale. The record player, which they had paused once the sun had come up, turned on once more, a quiet waltzing song filling the space of his apartment.

“You’re not suggesting that we…” Aziraphale started, clearly confused with the whole ordeal. Weren’t they planning to swap? How would dancing help?

“Oh just try it, angel, it’s just a last dance, might as well enjoy it.”

Well, enjoyment took a while. Mostly because Crowley had seemingly completely forgotten that Aziraphale knew _one_ type of dance. He was immensely proud of it, but it was nowhere near good. So now here you had it, two ethereal beings (or occult, depending on who you might ask) who both couldn’t dance, attempting their first waltz together.

But it worked. The tenseness in Aziraphale’s shoulders disappeared as they slowly stepped into the rhythm of the waltz. They probably did it completely wrong, but it was memory in their own movements. Crowley led, his fingers digging in the fabric of Aziraphale’s coat, taking his concentration elsewhere for just the briefest of moments. He checked to see if he could feel Aziraphale, his presence just outside of the dimension felt by humans. It was how he usually sensed the angel’s presence, and it was easy to handle if you had anywhere near a sixth sense. It took a moment, but Crowley’s feet didn’t skip a beat as he reached and found what he was looking for.

Aziraphale’s true presence was like a searing light, sharp and unwavering, and luckily calm. It was much bigger than his human form, but size wasn’t often a concept within its state. Crowley reached himself out beyond his form for the briefest moment, darker and more dull, slow like the tide of an ocean at night. Aziraphale’s hand tensed briefly in his with the first careful collision, clearly having noticed what he was doing.

They locked eyes, a poke, a hand almost, reached out, and was answered. They hooked onto each other, like fingers folding into held hands.

He pulled.

Changing bodies without a midway was disorienting and dizzying. However, it had a certain thrill, his presence wrapped around Aziraphale’s within a way that offered warmth, which was odd, considering that was quite a human sensation. They flowed over like water and with a brief pause, the two of them stopped dancing. Aziraphale was leading now, and for the first time in forever, the inhabitant of Aziraphale’s body had to look up to see the other. “Well—”

The shock of the familiar voice leaving his lips had made him pause. Crowley’s face wore an uncharacteristically warm smile. “That was excellent, my dear.”

“Euughhh, that doesn’t fit me, try again.” Crowley, in Aziraphale’s body, looked down at his body to really witness what he had just done. “Oh gosh, oh dear,” he tried, letting out the briefest huff of amusement as he put up a very posh voice. “Now we are in quite a predicament, where are the crrrrrroissants?”

“Crowley, stop it...” said Aziraphale in Crowley’s body, giving himself a moment to get familiar with tight trousers and slit eyes. He took a few steps, turned in a circle, then miracled up a pair of sunglasses to cover his pupils. “Now to say something characteristically you, well...”

“Hi, my name is Crowley, and I definitely have the best plants in Lond—”

“No, no no! I wouldn’t say that at all!! Firstly, I don’t do introductions, they better know me, and second of all...” Crowley pressed his sunglasses further onto his corporeal form’s nose. “I don’t compliment my plants.”

“Okay, I understand. Let me try again...”

Aziraphale lowered the sunglasses Crowley had just fixed up for him, giving Crowley a sight of sharp yellow irises. “No officer, absolutely no bloody reason to look at my license plate there, you won’t find it in your system. Oh, why, you ask? Oh well, here’s your answer!”

Aziraphale made an offensive gesture to seal the deal. Crowley caught himself cackling, putting his hand right onto the bowtie as he attempted to place it on his chest, which made it a bit of a mess.

Aziraphale tutted, reaching out to fix the bowtie. “Is that a sign that I’m ready?”

“Yes, quite.”

* * *

From the frying pan into the fire it seems. The two of them had just escaped the end of the world, and now found themselves being threatened in quite a similar way...

Though now it didn’t concern another five billion people, and all creatures on earth.

But the stakes to them were just as high, if not higher.

Before, there was a 50% chance of surviving if one decided to fight in the Great War, but their bosses were planning for utter annihilation of them both.

Below layers of marble, stone, fossils and heat, hell was waiting for Aziraphale’s first appearance as the demon Crowley. They wanted a show, a traitor stood before them. Someone who had ended Armageddon, had collaborated with an angel, had lied so often. Just like Aziraphale had suspected, they wanted to destroy him—

...Wait, did he hear that right? Aziraphale had to hide his own surprise as the court in front of him accused Crowley of destroying a fellow demon. There was shock; he hadn’t felt the sheer weight of Crowley’s actions, but couldn’t help but trust that it had been with good reason.

How a cornered cat, or snake, might react. Aziraphale took his verdict, muttered the quietest of prayer from deep within, then started undressing.

* * *

Crowley stared with disdain at the angels in front of him. Heaven was cold, clean, and far too bright. It was much like climbing Mount Everest: there wasn’t quite enough oxygen for a human, and barely enough for the creatures built to be on it. He could imagine certain angels to be more like vultures, fond of preying on those weak. It was what had often annoyed him about them, their uppity-ness. Luckily, Aziraphale had finally seen the light that their side was quite as unpleasant as well.

Though, Crowley had to admit, their architecture and paperwork was much more well-managed. And was that…? Okay yes, that was an angel passing on a hooverboard.

He was impressed how small the execution was. Aziraphale was most likely going through more of a marketing stunt, an example of what would happen to angels who disobeyed. Then again, angels had had their marketing stunt of what happened to those that disobeyed ages ago.

He wondered why they did not go for making Aziraphale fall, until it hit him.

_That power lay with God._

Crowley still wondered what he might have chosen, between falling and finding himself destroyed, and something hit him.

Through all the hardships, all the suffering, the sharp burn of tar as it had caught him mid-fall, Crowley had found a light at the end of the tunnel, a future, a source of happiness. He surely wasn’t going to lose it now.

Existence was making a sharp and optimistic turn, and Crowley was happily thrown into it.

The hellfire was lit, Crowley did his little kind speech to the angel Gabriel, who showed no mercy, no angel’s tears for the loss of his Principality.

_Fucking purple-eyed Asshole. Yeah, with a capital A._

Aziraphale deserved so much better.

Crowley made sure to offer Gabriel a firm middle-finger as he walked out of heaven unscathed, but with a lovely couple of heat-soothed muscles.

* * *

Aziraphale was the first to arrive at their usual bench in St. James’ park. It wasn’t pleasant, being the first, being the one _waiting_, especially not when people consistently asked if the place next to you was free. Funny how they had once enjoyed the busy spot of the park, well-hidden from prying eyes.

Now, all Aziraphale wanted to do was all that had weighed heavy on his heart. He wanted to sit next to Crowley on the bus, sit just that little bit closer, and accept any lift home. How rebellious, but how much rebellion was there for a free being? All rebellion was for its own created limits.

A familiar sensation covered his senses, like something might go wrong any moment now, which was just the usual sensation he got when Crowley was near him.

And there he came, not really sauntering, but also not walking quite as neatly as Aziraphale might have in his own corporeal form. Aziraphale had to resist jumping up and rushing towards the ‘angel,’ simply making place for Crowley to sit.

“So, I killed someone,” Aziraphale said, still in Crowley’s body, and therefore mostly referring to the demon.

There were prying eyes, but he saw the usual look of shock on his own face.

“Wuh…. Well, technically they killed themselves, walked beneath a bucket of holy water.”

“Good heavens, all this time thinking—”

“Thinking…?”

_Thinking that you would use the holy water as a cyanide pill, that you had decided an existence of running away wouldn’t be worth it._

“That I was never going to use it.” Aziraphale stopped himself from saying ‘you,’ for he was still Crowley.

They really ought to change back soon, it was an endlessly confusing thing, talking about himself like he had killed someone.

“Do you think they’ll leave us alone now?” Crowley asked, clearly to change the topic. It worked, and though Aziraphale wasn’t technically done talking about it all, he happily took the opportunity to change back into his own corporeal form.

And thus they did, not as dramatically as last time, mostly because it was like the return of a road already taken. One knew the steps back home, and Aziraphale knew how to settle in his form, found himself only briefly cracking his neck, which was pleasantly heated up.

Their future was briefly discussed, mostly the small gloomy thing that heaven and hell weren’t quite done with the earth, such a pity.

Aziraphale would rather enjoy his permanent leave from heaven in a place that didn’t host any wars between ethereal and occult beings, but contrary to popular belief, not all of fate listened to his wishes.

“Let me… tempt you to a spot of lunch?”

_Not all, but some of his wishes did get listened to._

Aziraphale couldn’t help but show his excitement. Something felt like they were part of a novel he had once read, one where the happily ever after was foreshadowed once, in a mention you might never have remembered if one didn’t thoroughly pay attention.

_Go for a picnic._

_Dine at the Ritz..._

"Temptation accomplished.” A yes, a yes please, as Aziraphale stood up. A date to celebrate, a cele…date? Celedrate, ah, Crowley would regret every single step that had gotten him to this moment if Aziraphale had attempted to make that pun.

“What about the Ritz? I believe a table for two has just miraculously come free.”

“Ahhhh!”

A sound of pleasant surprise, mostly because Crowley tended to be the one to mess with reservations and the lot. Well, didn’t everything suggest that Aziraphale was ready to break some rules?

And thus they went to the Ritz, and their table was set, their glasses were filled, the soft romantic sounds of the piano filled their ears with pleasant tunes.

“Don’t tell me you managed to...”

Aziraphale glanced at the piano player, who played a song uncommon but highly regarded by him. It was modern for his taste, which means it was written in the 60’s at the latest.

“A coincidence. Though, let me tell you a small secret.” Crowley made sure Aziraphale got a glance at his eyes beneath the sunglasses.

“I did _hope_ it would play, and isn’t that often enough?”

“It is.”

Aziraphale found himself reaching for his glass. “Just like I hoped and believed everything would go well, and it did.”

“You know. I don’t think this would have worked out if deep down, you weren’t just a bit of a good person.”

“And if you weren’t, deep down, just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.”

Aziraphale never thought he would find himself smile at being called a bastard, but here he was, and he knew Crowley saw the world in him, and he saw the same in Crowley.

“To the world.” Crowley started.

“To the world,” Aziraphale said, every fibre of his being still feeling such warmth he thought he might burst, just a little bit.

_To us. To eternity with you, to the love I feel as I look at you, to every second I can bless your existence, to every second I am blessed with yours._

Their glasses clinked, and eternity was _here_. Their side had won and had done so in quite a flawed way, but neither of them cared one bit.

A miracle of their own design, a collaboration they got to enjoy, just like all the people around them got to enjoy the joy of existence just a bit longer. But Crowley and Aziraphale were fine with the lack of a ‘thank you.’

Happily ever after was an odd thing to call it. It was used by fairytale authors who did not want to say ‘their life was happy till death’ because death, in its own, was often not a happy thing for humans. The authors wanted to feign the idea that there was infinity in their happiness, which made sense; it was a story that ended, and one could always stay with the idea that happiness was it. Would remain a permanent state of being for the characters within.

Maybe authors would love the idea of infinite happiness, or the idea of together for an immortal existence. For them, Aziraphale and Crowley, a _happily ever after_ was probably still the best way to describe it.

But there was so much more to come, and so many adventures to go on.

Maybe their story would simply never end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am _so_ sorry for taking so long to finish this??? Anyway, I hope you will enjoy this <3 it's just a little love note, see it as a redemption arc for love.


	13. EPILOGUE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 30-year anniversary to Good Omens!!!

_ **EPILOGUE** _

This story continued, as it had started and ended once, with a garden. In this case, the garden was London’s Syon Park.

The conservatory was a palace of glass and greenery that flourished in the years that society did not. It survived every hardship, every conflict with flying colours. Syon House did not, just to put it in perspective. A place made of bricks went before a place made of a material expected to break.

A miracle, some might say.

Aziraphale regarded the structure of the conservatory, squeezing his eyes just as the sun hit his face on a previously dreary day. It was the start of spring, which translated to the start of summer, a solid 10 years after Armageddon.

This time, the angel was the one with a basket in hand.

After breathing in the pleasant smell of ozone, he went on to enter the conservatory. He was already quite a bit late, and oh, Crowley loved chiding him for it. The excuse that five minutes meant nothing in their lives usually was answered with a warning stare.

Not that Crowley was usually on time.

He didn’t necessarily need to knock. In fact, the door swung open as if by magic as he got to it, granting him access to the conservatory.

Oh, and Aziraphale loved the place. He had once called it ‘little Eden.’ The high ceilings, all ending in lovely round towering globes, offered enough light for the plants inside. And my god, there were so many. It had once seemed empty, offering places mostly for humans to be its main inhabitant. Weddings were held on the regular, formal dance parties, promotional events. However, ever since the new owner of the gardens had been happily influenced by one Mr. Crowley to reinvent the place, the main inhabitants of the observatory had become plants.

The dark green was followed by a light green that embodied new life. Flowers were soon going to fill the long halls with all the colours of the rainbow, and the apple tree in its center would soon carry blossoms that often grazed the water lilies on their way down into the large square pond. Not yet blooming, and Aziraphale knew better than to interfere with Crowley’s preference to let them bloom on their own.

“They need to do it themselves, angel. No need to make them lazy,” The demon had said, clicking his split tongue in disappointment. Not necessarily to Aziraphale, maybe more to the plant that had eagerly wanted to be aided in its task of growing.

Aziraphale gave the potential blooming lilies a radiant smile, then continued his walk towards one of the three larger rooms inside the conservatory.

The one on the right to be precise. He knew where to go, mostly following the sounds of electric guitar from the Queen music that Crowley was still endlessly playing.

A last ray of sunlight laid like a curtain over the entrance. The conservatory was, when Aziraphale wanted it, a foggy place, creating a milky yellow hue to the rays that got through the unwashed windows.

Aziraphale stepped through the rays and instantly spotted the narrow frame of Crowley, hunched over an arrowhead and calmly tending to it with the occasional sharp threat. He carefully walked over, and heard the insults and threats grow more quiet the closer he got. He set down the basket, the glasses inside clinking as he placed a gentle hand on Crowley’s shoulder. The demon, in response, leaned down in perfect reach to receive a kiss on the cheek as greeting. “Good afternoon dear, I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important?” Aziraphale picked a stray leaf out of Crowley’s hair.

“Hrmmmrrhh... it knows what it did,” Crowley responded, giving the plant a probably well-deserved stink eye.

“Afternoon.” Aziraphale had earned a kiss back with his presence, which was enough to make the sun seemingly shine a little brighter indoors. “Careful, angel. They might get confused from summer heat.”

“Sorry, couldn’t help it. So, lunch?”

“I suppose I could take a break,”

Crowley spent plenty of hours in the garden of the conservatory, only to return to their shared home and do some more threatening towards the plants inside. It was one of those small pleasures of life on earth, and another one was lunch.

“I found a poem today, I think you might not have heard it before.”

Aziraphale passed Crowley a glass of jus d’orange, as he preferred to call it, and then hummed in appreciation. “Between the tending of plants, how do you even find time to read books?”

“Angel, with your eyes on eternity, there is always a task that can wait.”

“Well then. Now you got me curious! Let me hear it.”

Crowley, in a soft voice he only truly reserved for one person, and one person only, recited the following poem:

_You sit at the forest’s edge._

_You are in no rush,_

_no rush at all,_

_to leave this place behind you._

_You’ve got your back turned on all those_

_dark entanglements of_

_roots and vines, after all,_

_With not a whisper_

_not a single glance backwards._

_A sunlit warmth_

_welcomes you home with open arms_

_Wild grass and unnamed plants_

_bloom around you_

_They tangle in your hair_

_and_

_Like a long-time friend, like a celestial knowledge, like a hand linked with yours—_

_like happiness,_

_They build a garden around you._

_it’s more than you could’ve asked for._

_-SR_

Aziraphale took a beat, then grinned. “That is such a lovely poem, who wrote it?”

“Oh, some Russian lady I think, she’s quite popular. I can see why.” Aziraphale made a mental note to look up the actual poet, then repeated some lines from Crowley, just to tie it all together.

“They build a garden around you, it’s more than you could’ve asked for.”

Aziraphale related it to them. He related it to the garden of the conservatory, to the garden of their own cottage on the outskirts of London. There was such greenery, and it was a blessing, something Aziraphale had never dared to state before as a wish, and more than he could have asked.

They ate their lunch, a time Crowley took some effort in stating he had to return to tending to his plants. It never quite worked, however, for one simple content smile of Aziraphale and he wanted nothing but to stay a little longer. Most people got tired of a picnic after an afternoon, or left once it got dark and cold. But angels and demons did not get too cold or too hot, did not get tired or bothered by mosquitos if they didn’t let them, and thus a lunch picnic turned to supper, dinner, dessert, until the sun set on them both.

And by then, they were still discussing the new colour they were going to paint the doorframe of their cottage. It had needed a new colour ever since they had moved in together, but they never had quite bothered to change it. Aziraphale believed it had always been beige, Crowley could swear it was the colour of cement. Both agreed on a lovely crème at the end of it.

“You succeeded again, by the way,” Crowley chided as they gathered their possessions, ready to return home. He took a final look at the conservatory, which was enough to lock it, and then snapped his finger, letting a single red poppy flower appear in his hand. He offered it to Aziraphale, who thanked him with pleasant surprise, then put it in his chest pocket for everyone to see.

“Succeeded in what?”

“Distracting me.”

“Now now, how terrible, how _evil_ of me.” Aziraphale made sure to let the sarcasm drip off of his words.

“Hrmm... I suppose it’s a small miracle that you even managed to distract me, so that might make it _good_.”

Crowley opened the door to his Bentley’s passenger seat for the angel, then, after he sat down, made his way to the driver’s side.

It was a short drive home. Home, in this context, was a cottage not much different than the one the then-young Anathema Device had lived in. It was surrounded by the most stunning garden, however, and was covered in ivy that miraculously did not cover any doors or windows. It had been their home for about two years now, after Crowley’s apartment had become too cold for Aziraphale, and the bookshop did not offer a bed to sleep in. It had all the angel and demon needed. A living room to drink a glass of wine in, a kitchen they never used but would always remain functional, three rooms filled with books, a study that was more garden than study, and a bedroom that offered just enough comfort for Crowley to sleep in, and for Aziraphale to pretend doing so.

Earth was their home, this cottage was their home, the bookstore and the conservatory were their homes, and within the comfort and within each other’s arms, they found their true home.

* * *

The earth, as it was, ended much later than the so-planned Armaggeddon. It ended like it should have gone all along. The humans, within their control, had exhausted the planet’s resources, and had left for other stars.

The world had ended within their own control, and within their own negligence.

And it had been humanity’s right to fuck it up.

The angels and the demons had gotten their war on earth. It ended in a considerable draw, mostly because neither wanted to lose too many. It seemed that both had thought there would not have been any casualties on the winning side. An odd way of thinking for immortal beings.

And as the war was fought, an angel and a demon regarded the flames and flashes from a comfortable spot on the moon, still quietly mourning a finite life on earth. They had left a solid year before it had all came crashing down. The conflict of humans had become unbearable, and all of their belongings had now found a safe home on their plan B: Alpha Centauri.

A happily ever after reached, an infinity on its way.

** _THE END_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: Crowley’s recited poem was written as the last part of METERS, Susan's (notvictor) poetry series. Therefore, all credit goes to soos roos for writing it.
> 
> Also a special thank you to Greta (@undercoverghost) [on twitter for making fanart of this epilogue!](https://twitter.com/gretaghost/status/1203072043203354624?s=20)

**Author's Note:**

> Want to scream about Good Omens with me? Have an idea or headcanon you want to share? Come scream with me about it [on tumblr](https://achillaphale.tumblr.com)! **(Also, if you enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving a kudo, or just quote your favourite part, I really read all the comments, and it would make me really happy!) **  
  



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